? 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  THE  CITY  BY  THE  LAKE. 


Here  in  this  splendid  city  by  the  lake, 

I  dream  that  man  has  a  majestic  hope, 

Because  all  elements  of  life  and  thought 

Enrich  her  blood  and  stimulate  her  brain. 

Here  is  the  world  epitomized,  for  here 

Are  pulses  out  of  every  nation's  heart, 

And  men  may  study  mankind  at  their  hearths. 

This  is  to  be  a  favorite  battle-ground 

For  truth  and  error.      Here,  as  time  moves  on, 

Great  causes  will  be  marshaled.     Times    have  been 

Already,  when  the  stirring  trumpet  blast 

Of  an  approaching  conflict,  shook  the  world 

Out  of  its  dream  of  safety.      Oh,  then  teach 

All  capable  of  bearing  the  bright  arms 

Of  reason,  fearless,  independent  thought! 

If  you  would  lead  men  surely  angelward, 

Teach  them  to  think, — not  what  to  think,  but  how. 


IN   THE   CITY    BY   THE   LAKE 


IN  TWO  BOOKS 


THE    SHADOW,    AND   THE    SLAVE   GIRL 


BY 


BLANCHE  FEARING, 

Author  of  "  The  Sleeping  World, "  Etc. 


CHICAGO: 

SEARLE  &  GORTON 
1892 


Copyright  1892, 
By  BLANCHE   FEARING 

ALL  RIGHTS   RESERVED 


TS 


TO    MY    SISTER, 

MARIEN  E.  FEARING 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  I.— THE  SHADOW. 

PART  i.     LOVE         ...         .         .         .  n 

PART  2.     LIFE 28 

PART  3.     DEATH 53 

PART  4.     RESURRECTION      ...  71 

BOOK  II.— THE  SLAVE  GIRL. 

PART  i.     FREEDOM           ....  95 

PART  2.      SLAVERY       ....  *io8 

PART  3.      REVOLT    .         ...         .         .130 

PART  4.     FREEDOM  REGAINED      .        .  167 


762990 


BOOK  I 

THE  SHADOW 


PART  I 
LOVE 

There  is  a  splendid  city  by  a  lake 
That  beats  against  its  sea-wall  restlessly, 
Like  a  great  heart  that  hungers; — ever  beats 
With  mournful,  mystic  music,  as  if  chafed 
By  a  great  nameless  sorrow; — beats  and  beats, 
As  if  the  secret  heart-aches  of  all  hearts 
That  ever  in  that  city  beat  and  break, 
Were  buried  in  it.     Almost  it  would  seem, 
Some  great  magician  plied  his  magic  art 
To  build  that  city,  for  so  swift  it  raised 
Its  domes,  and  towers,  and  spires  to  the  sun, 
Far  swifter  than  the  slowly-building  hand 
Of  man  is  wont  to  raise  them.      Up  it  sprang, 
Most  like  the  phantom  fabric  of  a  dream. 
One  day  a  lonely  fort  'mid  savage  tribes 
Who  scudded  through  the  waving  prairie  grass 
After  the  deer  and  bison;    and  the  next, 
A  little  village  cradled  by  a  lake 
That  sang  to  it  its  solemn  old  sea-song, 
With  but  a  handful  of  men's  souls;  the  next, 
A  busy  town,  an  infant  Hercules 
Among  earth's  splendid  cities,  even  then, 
In  sturdy  childhood,  giving  prophecy 

11 


Of  giant  labors  to  be  wrought;  to-day, 

A  mighty  city,  and  the  whole  world  hears 

Its  roaring  wheels  of  commerce,  and  its  din 

Of  flying  shuttles  and  of  thunderous  looms, 

Fierce  heart-throbs  of  its  mighty  engines  driven 

By  the  white  steeds  of    lightning  and  of  steam, 

Whose  splendid  pulses  to  the  borders  roll; — 

A  city  whose  own  breath  has  dimmed  the  sun. 

And  once  a  flying  fiend  of  fire  swept, 

With  lurid  wings  and  blasting,  stifling  breath, 

Across  the  city,  and  behold,  a  heap 

Of  dully  glowing  embers  where  it  stood. 

Again  the  great  magician  plied  his  art — 

The  spirit  of  the  new  age — and  again 

That  city  raised  its  gleaming  domes  and  spires 

To  greet  the  early  kisses  of  the  sun. 

Now  men  who  cannot  prick  their  slower  brains 

Up  to  the  dizzy  speed  of  life  and  thought 

That  through  the  streets  upon  the  whirling  car 

Of  progress,  thunder,  rub  their  eyes  and  gasp, 

As  if,  like  Rip  Van  Winkle,  they  had  slept 

For  twenty  years,  "Ah!  pray,  what  doth  it  mean? 

Why,  here  we  had  a  village  yesterday!" 

Out  of  the  city's  hot,  tumultuous  heart, 
Just  out  of  sound  of  the  fierce  hum  and  hiss 
Of  human  insects  spinning  their  cocoons, 
His  little  world  of  interest,  each  for  self, 
To  bury  himself  in  it,  and  the  buzz 
Of  golden  honey-makers,  'round  one  flower, 
A  thousand  swarming  for  its  poison  sweets;  — 

12 


Just  out  of  sound  of  these  lived  Robert  Earle, 
A  quiet,  courtly  man,  who,  having  stored 
Enough  of  golden  honey,  had  withdrawn 
Into  his  princely  hive  to  live  upon  it, 
With  his  one  child,  a  daughter,  Edith  Earle. 
He,  in  his  youth,  against  the  wish  and  will 
Of  all  his  kindred,  had  been  early  wed 
Unto  a  simple  maiden,  who  had  naught 
To  recommend  her  but  a  brave,  true  heart, 
Revealed  within  a  sweetly  serious  face, 
As  clearly  as  the  silver  sands  that  lie 
At  bottom  of  a  lucid  mountain  lake. 
So  deep  and  constant  was  his  love  for  her, 
That  when  she  died  at  end  of  three  bright  years, 
And  left  him  with  a  helpless  babe,  he  kept 
Her  memory  like  a  fragrance  in  his  heart, 
As  if  an  angel,  stooping,  plucked  a  rose 
Out  ol  his  bosom,  but  the  perfume  rare 
Lingered  through  all  life's  garments,  sweetening  all. 
"Edith,  my  rose! ''   he  called  her  in  her  life; 
Nor  thought  nor  wish  had  he  to  wed  again, 
No  love  but  for  his  child — his  child  and  hers. 
Now  all  of  joy  and  hope  and  loveliness 
That  wealth  of  gold  and  wealth  of  love  could  give 
To  make  life  beautiful,  to  her  were  given; 
And  little  Edith  had  her  mother's  heart, 
As  well  as  violet  eyes  and  shining  hair, 
And  more — the  careful  culture  of  the  mind. 
All  rapturously  the  father  watched  his  bud 
Unfolding  into  girlhood's  radiant  rose. 
"Edith,  my  rose!"  he  cried  in  clasping  her — 

13 


"My  rose  without  a  thorn!"   and  kissed  her  cheek, 
First  one  and  then  the  other,  each  a  rose, 
And  then  the  mouth,  a  rosebud  in  between, 
And  then  the  forehead,  like  a  snow-white  dove 
Outgleaming  from  its  nest  of  shining  curls, 
And  had  no  thought,  no  heart  for  aught  but  her, 
Except  one  friend,  the  comrade  of  his  youth 
And  later  life.      Between  these  two  had  grown 
A  friendship  that  had  ripened  with  the  years 
Into  a  noble  intimacy.      He, 
Like  Robert  Earle,  possessed  an  only  child, 
The  rosy  star  of  his  declining  years. 
Now  Lucius  was  a  bright,  gay,  handsome  youth 
A  little  rollicking  but  honorable, 
With  kindly,  courteous  ways  and  easy  grace 
That  won  all  hearts,  and  pleased  his  father  well. 
Now  Robert  Earle  and  Arthur  Coventry 
Spoke  much  about  the  children,  till  it  came 
To  be  the  cherished  idol  of  their  hearts 
That  they  should  love  each  other,  and  then  wed. 
"Nothing  by  force!"  said  Robert,  "we  will  sow 
The  precious  seed,  then  nurse  the  tender  plant 
With  gentle  words  of  praise  like  summer  dew, 
And  sweet  companionship  like  summer  sun." 
So  played  the  children,  and  the  fathers  smiled, 
And  so  the  rosy  hours  of  childhood  flew, 
Like  birds  of  passage,  and  were  lost  to  sight, 
Far  in  the  dim,  blue  distance  of  the  past. 
All  rapturously  the  father  watched  his  bud 
Unfolding  into  girlhood's  radiant  rose, 
And  had  no  thought,  no  heart  for  aught  but  her ; 

14 


And  Edith  loved  her  father  ardently. 

In  him  was  childhood's  playmate,  girlhood's  friend, 

Father  and  mother,  almost  lover  he. 

It  chanced  upon  a  night,   (we  say  it  chanced, 
Nor  know  if  it  be  chance,  or  if,  indeed, 
An  unseen  tether  to  a  hand  divine, 
Draw  us  so  gently  this  way,  that  we  go, 
Unconscious  of  the  leading)  a  June  night, 
That  Edith  met,  as  any  one  might  meet, 
In  all  this  labyrinth  of  human  ways 
Where  footpaths  meet  and  cross,  and  meet  no  more, 
A  quiet,  sober  man,  a  modest  clerk 
In  a  great  merchant  house;    young,  but  he  seemed 
Older  by  ten  years  than  in  truth  he  was, 
For  his  had  been  a  lonely,  thoughtful  life. 
Years  make  not  old,  but  only  thought  that  is 
The  ripening  frost  of  the  eternal.      Lo, 
Over  the  life  of  Walter  Gray  there  flushed, 
On  that  June  night,  a  color  and  a  glow, 
When  Edith  Earle  broke  on  him  like  the  morn, 
A  rosy  light  between  monotonous  hills 
Of  toil  and  duty,  till  they  burned  and  glowed 
Like  colored  altar-fires  by  angels  fed. 
Day  after  day  caught  up  the  rosy  light,      » 
And  flashed  it  kindling  on  from  day  to  day, 
As  morning  beam  is  flashed  from  peak  to  peak, 
When,  'neath  the  white  feet  of  the  morning  star, 
The  crimson  billows  of  the  day  surge  up. 
A  sudden  inspiration  filled  his  life, 
As  when  one  turns  the  leaves  of  some  old  book, 

15 


And  stumbles  on  a  poem  suddenly, 

That  flames  afresh  life's  purpose  in  his  soul. 

So,  slowly  turning  o'er  the  thumb-worn  leaves 

Of  life's  prosaic  book  with  weary  hands, 

He  stumbled  on  this  poem — Edith  Earle; 

And  all  his  thoughts  ran  into  rhythmic  words, 

And  set  themselves  to  music  in  his  brain. 

For  what  is  poetry  but  that  which  gives 

A  glory  and  divineness  unto  things 

Of  common  names  and  uses?     Men  and  women, 

Who  set  us  palpitating  with  the  thrill 

Of  something  loftier  than  we  yet  have  dreamed, 

Are  God's  sublimest  poems. 

Edith  Earle 

Felt  in  her  life  a  sudden  strength  and  breadth, 
A  deepening  downward  toward  unsounded  depths, 
A  lifting  upward  toward  unmeasured  heights; 
And  all  her  soul  shook  out  its  gleaming  sails, 
And  through  them  blew  a  fresh,  strong  breath  of  life, 
Which  brought  her  to  a  new  mysterious  world; 
As  one,  who,  sailing  on  familiar  seas, 
And  carried  by  a  fresh  wind  from  his  course, 
Is  startled  by  an  undiscovered  land. 
How  is  it  that  one  human  soul  draws  out 
Another's  grace  and  power,  where  a  third 
Can  find  no  strength  or  sweetness,  as  the  sun 
Brings  out  the  flush  and  flavor  of  the  fruit 
From  which  the  moonlight  draws  no  taste  or  tint? 
Edith  kept  this  first  secret  of  her  life 
Unshared  with  him  who  shared  all  things  beside, 
And  kept  it  through  ng  fear  or  bashfulness, 

16 


But  through  the  wonder  of  it; — it  seemed  so  strange, 

As  if  a  waiting  angel  stretched  his  hand 

Just  at  the  moment  when  the  soul  was  right, 

And  touched  a  secret  spring  that  opened  wide 

A  mystic  chamber  that  was  unforeguessed; 

And  all  her  words  and  actions  grew  subdued, 

As  if  to  keep  the  music  in  her  heart, 

As  a  musician  sometimes  muffles  up 

The  instrument  to  keep  the  music  in. 

Now  Robert  Earle  looked  wise,  and  in  his  heart 

Shook  hands  with  Cupid,  smiling,  but  spoke  not. 

So,  like  a  serpent  taking  tail  in  mouth, 

Completed  was  the  circle  of  the  year, 

Whose  end  and  whose  beginning  met    in  June. 

After  the  first  sweet  rapture  of  it  all, 
A  trouble  thrust  itself  in  Walter's  heart, 
And  beat  there  like  a  heart  within  a  heart; 
And  sometimes  he  would  clasp  his  hands  upon  it, 
As  if  to  ease  it,  for  it  seemed  a  thing 
So  tangible,  it  ached  and  quivered  so. 
Once  in  that  second  June  he  said  to  her: 
"Edith,  my  heart  is  troubled;   I  must  speak. 
However  hard  the  doing  of  a  thing, 
'Tis  easier  done  than  thought  of  night  and  day. 
I  do  but  wrong  you  with  this  love  of  mine. 
Why  should  I  love  you — I,  who  am  so  poor 
In  all  those  things  which  make  life  pleasurable? 
You  have  been  used  to  costly  robes  and  gems 
And  fairy  laces,  and  those  lily  hands 
Were  never  soiled  with  labor.     This  will  change, 

17 


Unless  we  be  your  father's  pensioners, 
Which  never  can  be.      I  but  do  you  wrong 
To  link  your  life  with  mine,  and  mar  it  so." 
Then  Edith  turned  upon  him  with  her  face 
Flushed  like  the  sunrise,   answering,  "I  do  pray 
No  darker  trouble  ever  come  to  you, 
My  Walter.     When  I  was  a  little  child, 
And  my  good  nurse  would  clothe  my  baby  limbs 
In  costly  garments,  I  would  run  away, 
And  find  my  father,  sobbing  piteously, 
'My  father,  take  them  off — I  cannot  play.' 
I  like  the  best  to  wear  a  simple  dress, 
And  only  wear  the  costlier  ones  to  please 
My  father,  who  delights  to  see  me  clad 
In  beautiful  garments.     True,  these  idle  hands 
Have  never  learned  to  toil,  but  I  am  strong; 
I  hate  the  ease  and  languor  of  my  life, 
And  it  will  be  a  joy  to  strive  with  you, 
To  brave  the  things  that  other  hearts  have  braved, - 
So  taste  the  life  most  men  and  women  live. 
My  father  shall  not  help  his  children  more 
Than  fathers  help  their  children  commonly. 
O  Walter,  we  are  both  so  young  and  strong!" 
She  paused  all  breathless,  for  the  hurrying  words 
Had  tripped  each  other,  coming  tremulously, 
As  if  each  had  a  heart  that  beat  too  fast; 
And  such  a  high,  sweet  courage  lit  her  face, 
A  tender  mist  came  over  Walter's  eyes. 
He  knew  her  maiden  fancy  tinged  the  truth, 
But  had  no  heart  to  tell  her,  for  she  looked 
So  flushed  and  splendid,  so  he,  only  gazed, 

18 


And  almost  worshiped  her.      Instinctively 
We  "bow  the  head  before  the  soul  that  dares. 
"Another  thing" — he  said,  "have  you  no  dread 
Of  his,  your  father's  anger?"   Edith  smiled: 
"My  father  never  yet  has  frowned  on  me; 
He  never  crossed  my  will  in  anything; 
To  make  me  happy  is  his  happiness, 
But  I  will  tell  him  of  it  now,  this  night." 

So  Edith  came  and  laid  her  shining  head 

Against  her  father's  knee,  and  clasped  his  hand, 

And  looking  up  with  her  frank,  fearless  gaze, 

She  said,  "My  father,  I  have  kept  too  long 

My  secret;  I  have  loved  now  for  a  year. " 

Then  Robert    Earle    brushed  something    large   and 

bright, 

That  like  a  jewel  rolled  down  from  his  cheek, 
And  laid  a  hand  upon  the  shining  head: 
"My  daughter  does  but  share  the  common  fate, 
For  every  one  will  have  his  time  to  love 
As  surely  as  he  has  his  time  to  die. 
And  does  he  love  my  rose?   But  wherefore  ask? 
Could  any  help  it,  being  loved  by  her?" 
"He  loves  me,  father." 

"Where  is  he — the  rogue! 

Why  comes  he  not  to  ask  my  blessing?    Go, 
And  send  for  Lucius;    tell  him  I  would  see  him.  " 
Then  Edith  looked  aghast,  and  all  the  rose 
Died  from  her  cheek,  like  sunset  from  the  west 
When  suddenly  a  cloud  drops  down  the  sky. 
"It  is  not  Lucius  that  I  love — no,  no! 

1'J 


My  father,  you  have  never  seen  his  face." 
The  hand  slipped  downward  from  the  shining  1iead. 
For  the  first  time  in  all  her  whole  sweet  life, 
Her  father  frowned  upon  her,  and  she  drooped. 
'Edith,  why  have  you  kept  this  thing  so  long? 
This  surely  is  a  fancy  that  will  flit 
Across  your  brain,  and  leave  it  clear  again." 
He  pushed  her  from  him,  clinging  to  his  knees, 
And,  rising,  paced  the  room  three  times,  then  turned, 
Saying,  "Go  bring  him  to  me,  and  I  swear 
To  bless  you  both,  if  he  be  worthy  of  you. " 
Again  he  paced  the  room,  and  shook  his  head, 
And  muttered  to  himself,   "What  cursed  fools 
Men  are  when  they  adjudge  themselves  most  wise." 
Meanwhile  came  Edith  to  where  Walter  stood, 
Leaning  against  a  pillar  of  the  porch. 
She  said,  "He  asks  to  see  you,  Walter,  come!  " 
And  Walter  followed  her,  as  one  who  goes 
To  meet  his  doom.     One's  seldom  at  his  best, 
Feeding  himself  on  trial.      He  only  does 
His  noblest  in  the  sweet  unconsciousness 
Of  observation.     Walter  never  missed 
His  manly  poise  so  far  as  on  that  night. 
He  sat  uneasily  upon  his  chair, 

And  plucked  his  fingers,  groping  through  his  words, 
And  almost  felt  the  manhood  in  him  die; 
And,  feeling  that  he  shamed  her  he  loved  most, 
Was  thrice  unmanned;  but  Robert  Earle  was  cool 
And  critical,  probing  calmly,  point  by  point, 
His  mind  and  prospects,  noticed  every  flaw, 
Without  discriminating  between  those 

20 


Which  were  by  nature  and  by  habit  wrought 
Into  the  substance,  and  those  which  were  made 
Upon  the  surface,  idle  finger  marks 
Of  the  occasion,  to  be  brushed  away 
By  the  next  happier  moment.     When  at  last, 
Ihe  trial  ended,  the  accused  dismissed, 
Came  Edith  in  her  fleecy  robe  of  white, 
And  nestled  like  a  lamb  between  his  knees, 
Who  dropped  his  withered  hands  like  autumn  leaves 
Upon  the  golden  summer  of  her  hair. 
She,  thinking  to  herself  that  he  had  seen 
The  manhood  through  the  moment's  awkwardness, 
Let  her  sad  heart  beat  lighter.     Then  he  spoke: 
"Edith,  my  rose,  he  is  not  worthy  of  you, 
Has  neither  personal  grace  nor  gifts  of  mind  — 
A  stupid,  penniless  fellow,  who  but  seeks 
To  make  his  own  nest  soft  with  others'  down. 
Wake  from  this  dream! — he  is  not  worthy  of  you." 
She  drew  away  from  his  caressing  touch. 
"You  shall  not  speak  so,  father;  you  have  heard 
How  any  one  may  wear  a  guilty  look, 
\Vhen  put  upon  his  trial;  and  besides, 
No  man  was  ever  seen  alike  by  two. 
My  nature  has  a  side  for  every  friend; 
No  one  may  stand  upon  a  middle  height, 
And  view  the  complex  whole.     Do  you  not  know 
We  often  seem  least  noble  in  the  hour 
When  we  would  seem  our  noblest?     Furthermore, 
We  see  the  thing  we  seek  for,  good  or  ill, 
Far  easier  than  the  thing  we  would  not  see. 
You  should  not  judge  him,  knowing  him  one  hour; 

21 


You  should  believe  me  who  have  had  a  year 

For  passing  judgment."    Robert  Earle  looked  down 

Into  the  glowing  face  upturned  to  him, 

And,  like  an  angel  gleam  in  every  look 

And  queenly  motion,  saw  her  mother's  soul, 

But  stronger,  loftier,  and  set  himself, 

With  all  his  strength  of  will,  against  the  man, 

Who  dared  to  win  her  heart,  while  being  so  far 

Unworthy  of  her,  and  the  ominous  clouds 

Began  to  gather  on  his  brow;    the  smile 

Died  down  upon  his  lips,  and  left  them  dark. 

"Take  a  month,  Edith — think  of  it  a  month." 

"My  father,  I  have  thought  of  it  a  year." 

But  take  another  month  now  that  you  know 
My  heart  is  set  against  it,  and  he  seems 
To  me  unworthy  of  you,  for  you  know 
That  you  are  all  I  have  on  earth  to  love." 
He  motioned,  and  she  rose  and  sadly  went. 

In  those  dark  days  of  coldness  and  restraint, 

The  first  between  them,  Sorrow  first  appeared — 

Sorrow,  who  never  slighted  human  heart, — 

And  touched  her,  shrinking.   Walter  shook  his  head, 

Saying  in  sadness,     "He  will  never  yield." 

But  Edith  answered,     "Walter,  never  fear, 

Because  he  loves  me  so." 

Now  when  a  month, 

A  golden  wheel  that  forward  bears  the  year 
Upon  its  circle,  turned  upon  itself, 
Came  Edith  in  a  fleecy  robe  of  white, 
And  nestled  like  a  lamb  between  his  knees, 

22 


Who  laid  a  hand  upon  her  shining  head: 
"Edith,  my  rose,  speak,  tell  me  that  this  dream 
Has  vanished  in  the  light  of  sober  thought." 
She  answered  softly:      "Learn  to  love? — not  hard; 
Unlearn  it? — surely  God  can  unmake  souls 
Most  easier  than  we  do  that,  being  true. 
I  am  not  dreaming,  therefore  cannot  wake." 
"Take  a  month,  Edith,   take  another  month, 
Then  come  again,  and  speak  the  final  word; 
Remember  you  are  all  I  have  on  earth." 
He  motioned,  and  she  rose  and  sadly  went. 
"Edith,  I  know  that  he  will  never  yield," 
Said  Walter  Gray,  and  sadly  shook  his  head. 
"And  if  he  will  not,  Walter,  we  will  wed, 
And  when  'tis  done  past  all  undoing,  then 
I  know  he  will  relent,  and  bless  us  both — 
He  loves  me  so!" 

So  slipped  another  month, 

Wanting  yet  two  nights  only.     Walter  walked 
Beside  the  lake,  and  listened  to  it  sob, 
As  if  the  heart-aches  of  all  human  hearts 
Were  hidden  in  it,  and  his  strong  soul  shook 
With  a  great    storm    of    passion.      "Help    me,"    he 

prayed, 

"O  God,  to  do  the  thing  I  ought.     I  hate 
The  social  forms  which  made  her  rich,  me  poor, 
With  neither  praise  nor  blame  to  her  or  me; 
That  make  the  inward  good  the  outward  wrong; 
That  rob  earth  of  its  glory  and  its  grace, 
And  make  a  man's  life  war  with  manfulness; 
But  since  these  things  are,  help  me,  God,  to  be 

M 


Heroic,  strong  and  noble."     So  he  prayed. 
The  smiling  August  moon  rose  from  the  lake, 
And  clambered  into  heaven  among  the  stars, 
Leaving  a  silver  trail  across  the  waves 
He  felt  the  shadow  of  an  unseen  woe 
Slanting  across  the  future  years,  until 
It  sloped  to  meet  his  footsteps.     So  he  prayed, 
Until  he  felt  his  heart  and  purpose  strong  — 
Felt  through  his  inmost  being  all  the  strength 
The  triumph  of  self  over  self  can  give. 

So  when  they  sat  within  the  marble  gaze 

Of  Schiller's  statue  gleaming  through  the  trees 

Clasping  some  tender  poem  in  its  hand, 

While  snowy  moonlight  drifted    through  the  shade, 

Said  Walter,  "Edith,  I  have  done  you  wrong; 

I  will  not  wrong  you  further."     Edith  turned, 

A  mingled  shade  and  splendor  on  her  face, 

As  comes  a  cloud  at  morning  from  the  east, 

Trailing  the  sunrise:      "If  you  love  me  not, 

Then  have  you  spoken  wisely." 

"Nay,"  he  said, 

"Say  not,  if  I  love  not,  but,  if  I  love 
So  much  that  I  would  rather  die  than  bring 
A  weight  of  care  and  trouble  on  your  life. 
I  give  my  heart  a  willing  sacrifice, 
And  in  that  sacrifice  my  heart  is  strong, 
To  spare  you  grief  and  trouble." 

"Listen,"  she  said, 

"You  give  your  heart  a  willing  sacrifice 
To  spare  me  grief  and  trouble,  and  you  make 

24 


A  life-long  anguish  for  us  both;    I  give 

A  little  ease  I  love  not  over  much, 

And  in  the  sacrifice  my  heart  is  strong, 

To  make  you  joy,  and  both  of  us  are  blest. 

Which  sacrifice  is  nobler — yours  or  mine?" 

Her  sweet,  firm  voice  and  gentle  strength  of  will 

Shook  his  strong  soul,  and  in  her  tender  smile 

He  felt  his  purpose  vanish,  like  a  drift 

Of  foolish  snow  beneath  an  April  sun. 

Stoop  through  the   heavens,  thou   blushing   August 

moon, 

And  lay  thy  full,  red  cheek  against  the  dark! 
Open  unto  their  uttermost,  ye  stars, 
Your  bright,  unwearying  eyelids!      It  is  light — 
More  light  we  want  on  earth.     Then  Walter  bowed 
His  head  upon  his  breast,  and  clasped  her  hands: 
"Choose,  Edith,  for  us  both— I  cannot  choose." 
She  answered  softly,  "Walter,  I  have  chosen!" 

Night  in  the  city,  and  its  ponderous  heart 

Begins  to  beat  low  with  the  jar  and  clash 

Of  change  and  exchange  half-subsiding.     Lo, 

There  souls  are  dying — souls  are  being  born. 

Hark! — some  are  praying,  and  not  far  away 

The  sound  of  wassail,  and  the  gambler's  oath 

Who  loses,  and  his  chuckle  who  wins.     Hark! — 

The  moan  of  anguish,  like  the  wandering  wind 

Amid  the  naked  branches,  and,  dear  God, 

The  very  babes  have  curses  on  their  lips, 

Who  know  not  what   a   curse   means.     Hark!— the 

sound 

25 


Of  gospel  singing,  and  not  far  away 

The  babble  of  the  drunkard,  and,  lo!  there 

A  little  twelve-year  girl  is  taken  up  drunk 

From  off  the  stones,  and  laid  in  the  patrol. 

O  God,  how  can  your  angels  sing  in  heaven, 

With  sights  and  sounds  like  these  on  one  pale  star? 

Yonder  the  thief  prepares  his  midnight  tools, 

The  murderer  like  a  serpent  stealthily  seeks 

An  ambush,  where  he  coils  and  waits  his  prey. 

Lo,    there    a    three-months'  bride,  with    streaming 

tears, 

Showers  her  passionate  kisses  on  cold  lips 
That  but  an  hour  since  answered  kiss  with  kiss. 
Some  word  of  hope  strikes  bell-like  deep  and  sweet, 
With  multiple  echoes.     Listen! — do  you  hear 
The  music  of  a  lover's  first  kiss?   Hush!  — 
The  sobbing  of  a  lonely  heart  that  breaks, 
Like  a  wild  wave  upon  a  desolate  shore, 
Thrice  lonely  in  a  city  full  of  hearts. 
Across  the  rainbow  fringes  of  the  light, 
The  mirthful  murmur  of  some  social  joust 
Is  heard  not  far  away,  and  from  the  lake 
The  pale  fog-angel  comes  and  spreads  his  wings, 
Smoke  tinged,  above  the  city;  over  all 
'The  passionless  stars,  in  bright,  eternal  hush, 
Unsleeping  ever,  almost  seem  to  sleep. 

This  night  came  Edith  in  her  fleecy  robe, 
And  nestled  like  a  lamb  between  his  knees, 
Who  laid  a  hand  upon  her  shining  head, 
And  waited  for  her  word.     She  gently  said: 

20 


"My  father,  can  it  be  that  you  forget 
How  you  once  wed,  against  the  wish  and  will 
Of  all  your  kindred,  a  poor  simple  girl, 
Who  made  three  years  of  life  so  sweet  to  you, 
You  could  not  love  another?     Do  you  hold 
My  love  more  cheaply?      Father,  I  have  chosen." 
She  thought  his  fond  caressing  touch  a  sign 
Of  melting,  but  'twas  only  as  the  brook, 
After  the  first  frost,  feels  the  morning  sun, 
And  thaws  a  little,  but  congeals  again 
Into  a  twofold  winter  iciness, 
After  it  feels  the  second  night  of  frost. 
The  force  of  will  that  in  his  youth  was  strength, 
The  winter  in  his  blood  made  obstinacy. 
So  men  do  sometimes  nurse  some  foolish  wish 
And  give  the  dearest  thing  they  hold  in  life 
Rather  than  calmly  yield  it  to  events. 
The  hand  slipped  downward  from  the  shining  head, 
And  Robert  Earle  arose,  and  thrice  he  strode 
Across  the  room  and  thrice  again,   then  turned, 
And  motioned  her  to  leave  him:     "Go!"  he  said, 
"Henceforth  I  am  alone  and  childless.     Go!" 
She  gave  a  sharp  cry  like  a  wounded  thing, 
And  sprang  into  his  arms,  and  clasped  his  neck: 
"Edith,  your  rose!     My  father,  say  it  not!" 
He  tore  away  the  tender  arms  that  clung 
Like  ivy  tendrils  to  his  bosom:      "Go, 
And  come  not  back  again,  except, — "  he  smiled 
A  scornful,  bitter  smile  that  burned  itself 
Into  her  bosom,  where  it  ached  and  throbbed 
Heart-like  unto  her  dying  day — "except 

27 


You  or  your  children  hunger,  or  are  cold, 

Or  shelterless,  then  come  to  me  again, 

And  I  will  give  you  shelter,  bread  and  clothes." 

She  turned,  and  like  a  wounded  bird  that  tries 

After  the  hunter's  shot  to  fly  again 

But  flutters  helplessly  along  the  grass, 

She  crept  away  to  Walter,  where  he  stood, 

Leaning  against  a  pillar  of  the  porch. 

She  slipped  her  hand  in  his,  and  whispered,  "Come!" 

She  looked  so  white  and  wounded  that  he  caught 

Both  fluttering  hands,  and  held  her  gently  back: 

"Choose  yet  again,"  he  said,  and  gravely  bent 

And  kissed  her  with  a  long  and  passionate  kiss. 

The  spirit  of  a  sweet  smile,  timorous,  bright, 

Uncertain  if  it  dare  to  light  at  all, 

Hovered  about  her  young  lips'  tempting  red: 

"It  is  not  yet  too  late — choose  once  again!" 

And  Edith  answered,  "Walter,  I  have  chosen." 


PART  II 
LIFE 

So  Edith  Earle  and  Walter  Gray  were  wed, 
And  made  their  nest  up  in  a  pleasant  flat, 
Upon  a  quiet  street,  and  merrily  chirruped 
And  sang  like  birds  about  its  furnishing. 
Then  Edith  set  herself  to  learn  new  arts, 
Turning  her  pretty  hands  to  homely  tasks, 
Laughing  about  her  blunders  and  mishaps, 

28 


Rehearsing  them  to  Walter  with  such  art 

And  graceful  humor  that  he  also  laughed, 

Until  the  tears  would  come.     And  many  a  night 

They  walked  and  talked  together,  while  they  heard 

The  restless  waters  moaning  to  the  shore 

Their  sad,  mysterious  longings,  that  awake 

Emotions  that  have  lain  too  deep  for  thought, 

As  thought  will  often  lie  too  deep  for  words. 

They  watched  the  people  thronging  to  and  fro 

Beneath  the  lamplight — lovers  hand  in  hand, 

Grave  men  and  women  weary  and  worn    with  toil, 

And  children  bubbling  over  with  young  life; 

All  waiting  for  the  wave-washed  winds  that  come 

Whispering  shoreward,  shaking  their  cool  wings. 

And  so  they  walked  and  talked  and  read  and  dreamed, 

All  in  a  rosy  mist  of  life  and  love; 

And  so  the   summer  and  the  autumn  went 

And  Edith  never  spoke  of  that  deep  wound, 

Too  deep  for  time's  slow  healing. 

Christmas  came, 
The  glad,  white  Christmas.     "Our  first   Christmas^ 

time," 

He  whispered  as  he  clasped  her,  and  she  smiled. 
But  Walter  thought  the  smile  was  mixed  with  shade, 
Like  sunlight  with  the  shadows  of  the  leaves. 
He  looked  at  her  so  keenly  that  she  dropped 
Her  lashes  low  to  hide  the  blinding  tears, 
Saying,   "We  are  so  happy,  but  you  know 
The  brightest  day  will  have  a  little  cloud, 
And  there's  a  mournful  thought  creeps  to  my  heart — 
My  father  sits  alone  and  sad  to-night." 

29 


She  lifted  up  her  eyes  and  saw  his  face 

Was  grave  and  troubled,  and  she  blamed  herself 

For  having  spoken  of  it.     Every  day 

She  watched  and  waited  for  the  tender  word: 

"Edith,  my  rose,  my  darling,  come  to  me!  " — 

The  word  that  never  came.     Oh,  dull,  slow  pain 

Of  watching  for  a  good  that  does  not  come, 

And  which  the  watcher  has  no  power  to  speed! 

Still  Edith's  heart  beat  lightly,  for  she  hoped, 

And  life  and  love  were  young  and  strange  and  sweet 

So  was  it  that  almost  before  she  knew 

That  they  had  come, the  weeks  and  months  flashed  by, 

Like  shining  sheets  of  water  and  green  groves 

And  banks  of  flowers,  seen  from  a  flying    train. 

Edith  was  never  used  to  hoard  and  count 

The  pennies,  and;  although  she  planned  and  saved 

And  calculated  wisely,  yet  she  found, 

As  household  cares  increased,  expenditures 

Exceeded  income,  and  with  all  her  thrift, 

She  could  not  make  the  two  perverse  ends  meet. 

She  spoke  no  word  to  Walter,  but  she  sold 

The  jewels  from  her  casket  one  by  one, 

Telling  herself  she  should  not  wear  them  more, 

And  meantime  she  would  find  a  better  way. 

A  shadow  sometimes  crept  across  her  brow, 

A  look  of  anxious  trouble  in  her  eyes, 

But  Walter  only  saw  the  perfect  smile. 

It  happened  once  upon  a  holiday 
That  Walter  sat  with  Edith  in  the  house, 
When  many  flags  were  flying  in  the  sun, 

30 


Orchestral  music  throbbing  through  the  streets, 
And  all  the  city  in  its  gay  attire, 
For  Walter  took  his  holidays  for  rest. 
He  held  a  book,  and  thinking  that  he  read, 
She  propped  her  elbow  on  her  knee,  and  leaned 
Her  chin  upon  her  hand,  and  gravely  gazed 
Upon  the  busy  street,  but  nothing  saw 
Of  all  the  life  and  tumult  that  were  there. 
She  saw  before  and  after,  and  there  came 
A  look  of  anxious  trouble  in  her  eyes. 
And  Walter,  with  his  book  before  his  face, 
Seeming  to  read,  but  looking  keenly  at  her 
Over  the  top,  observed  the  troubled  gaze, 
The  sudden  shadow  cross  the  sunny  brow, 
As  swift  and  noiseless  as  a  flying  world 
Across  the  golden  forehead  of  the  sun. 
He  felt  a  sudden  anguish  in  his  breast, 
As  if  his  heart  had  beat  against  a  thorn. 
"Does  she  pine  for  the  old  life  with  its  ease, 
Its  pleasure  and  its  plenty?     Does  she  hide 
A  stinging,  live  regret  within  her  heart 
Forever,  like  a  wasp  within  a  rose?" 
He  leaned  a  little  forward,  speaking  low: 
"Edith,  my  darling,  could  you  choose  again 
To-day,  would  you  so  choose?     I  thought  I  saw 
A  shadow  of  regret  upon  your  brow." 
She  turned  to  meet  his  hungry   questioning  gaze 
Then  bent  to  brush  away  a  teasing  fly 
That  troubled  little  Robert's  rosy  dream, 
Who  lay  upon  his  pillow  flushed  and  fair, 
With  dewy  breath  of  sleep  from  unseen  flowers, 

31 


And  cool,  white  fountains  sparkling  in  green  glades. 

She  laid  a  hand  upon  his  rosy  palm, 

Flung  out  upon  the  pillow  like  a  flower, 

Then  turned  again  to  Walter,  speaking  low: 

"Oh!   life  has  many  sweet  relationships, 

The  tender  ties  that  hold  the  heart  to  earth 

Through  which  its  pulses  run  but  to  return 

Enriched  upon  the  heart — the  sweet  upflow 

From  child  to  parent,  like  the  gentle  dew 

Sent  down  from  heaven  returned  to  heaven  again; 

The  passionate  out-gush  from  friend  to  friend, 

Lover  to  lover,  wedded  heart  to  heart, 

Brother  to  brother,  like  the  pure  exchange 

Of  limpid  lakes,  through  secret  hidden  springs; 

The  pure  down-flow  from  parent  unto  child, 

Divinely  tender,  sweet,  mysterious; 

And  more  than  these;  but,  wanting  one  of  these, 

The  heart-aches  for  a  thing  missed  out  of  life. 

Oh!  do  not  blame  me,  Walter,  if  I  miss 

My  father's  gentle  hand  upon  my  head, 

Where  oft  it  lay  so  fondly." 

After  that 

There  came  a  little  song-bird  to  the  nest, 
The  sweetest,  gladdest  thing  that  ever  ruled, 
The  queen  and  rosy  despot  of  a  home. 
And  Walter's  heart  was  full  as  a  full  cup, 
With  the  sweet  wine  of  gladness,  as  he  watched 
The  baby  with  her  mother's  eyes  and  hair, 
The  little  leaping,  laughing,  loving  thing, 
Growing  from  day  to  day.    And  when,  at  last, 
They  walked  abroad  at  eve,  the  little  ones 

32 


Running  before  them  hand  in  hand  a  way, 

Now  pausing  to  await  their  graver  steps, 

Or  question  them  about  some  curious  thing; 

Or  Walter  lifted  one,  and  Edith  one, 

With  rosy  mouths  and  blue  eyes  wonder  wide, 

To  gaze  upon  the  jarring,  roaring  wheels 

Of  some  great  engine  panting  at  its  task, 

Like  a  fierce  captive  giant,  and  they  strove 

To  smooth  and  tame  some  mighty  idea  down 

To  suit  the  grasping  of  the  baby  brain, 

Then  Walter's  heart  was  full  as  a  full  cup. 

So  was  it  that  his  life  flashed  into  song, 

Burst  into  sunlight,  like  a  river  that  runs 

A  long  time  through  a  dark,  deep  gorge,  then  breaks 

Out  on  a  ledge,  leaps  down  a  rock,  and  sweeps 

Into  a  sunlit  valley,  where  it  glides, 

Untroubled  as  a  child's  first  thought  of  God. 

The  man  was  gayer  than  the  boy  had  been; 

'Tis  marvelous  how  much  we  change  with  change. 

But  Edith's  life  grew  graver,  for  to  her 
Was  more  of  loss  as  well  as  more  of  gain. 
How  could  he  understand  what  she  had  missed? 
The  gay,  bright  world  she  came  from — like  a  bird 
From  golden  tropics  with  their  cloudless  skies, 
The  deathless  bloom  of  flowers,  and  the  sound 
Of  music  that  could  make  the  angels  weep, 
The  social  life  and  splendor,  and  the  light 
Of  friendly  faces,  waiting  for  her  smile 
To  breathe  their  homage,  and,  the  best  of  all, 
The  tender  touch  upon  her  shining  hair 

33 


Of  one  dear  hand,  the  fond  light  of  one  smile; — 
Came,  like  a  rare  bird  shedding  its  bright  hues, 
Daring  the  northern  bleakness,  blast  and  frore, 
And  wearing  sober  plumes  to  match  its  mate. 
She  sometimes  felt  a  hunger  for  these  things, 
And  chafed  a  little  at  the  long,  dull  days' 
Unyielding  bonds  of  duty — she,  whose  will 
Was  never  thwarted,  who  had  never  felt, 
Through  childhood's  happy  May  or  girlhood's  June, 
The  thorn-thrust  of  a  sharp,  unyielding  no; 
And  Waiter  sometimes  vexed  her  with  his  eyes, 
Searching   her   through   and   through    to   find  some 

spark 

Of  smoldering  regret  or  discontent. 
Less  noble  natures  had  grown  irritable, 
But  Edith  bravely  trod  the  secret  thorns, 
And  ever  told  herself  his  gravest  fault 
Was  loving  her  too  fondly;  and  each  day   • 
She  battled  with  herself  heroically. 
And  Walter  only  saw  the  perfect  smile, 
And  asked  no  other  splendor  in  his  life, 
No  music  but  the  laughter  of  his  babes, 
That  kept  his  young  heart  full  as  a  full  cup, 
So  full  it  needed  but  a  little  jar 
To  spill  a  portion  of  the  joyous  wine. 

Once  in  the  morning  paper,  Walter  came 
Upon  the  name  of  Lucius  Coventry. 
He  read  the  name  aloud,  and  after  it 
The  brilliant  marriage  notice,  and  then  cast 
A  sidelong,  searching  glance  at  Edith.     She 

34 


On  either  shoulder  laid  a  loving  hand, 
And  looked  down  with  a  mirthful,  quivering  smile; 
A  smile  that,  like  a  sunbeam  on  her  lips, 
A  sunbeam  falling  between  tremulous  leaves, 
Quivering  like  golden  water  on  the  floor, 
Danced  back  and  forward  playfully, — a  smile 
That  made  him  blush  with  conscious  foolishness, 
And  in  confusion  draw  the  bright  face  down 
For  tender  kissing,  and  read  hastily  on. 

Upon  a  shining  morn  when  Walter  romped 
With  little  Elsa  ere  he  went  from  home, 
He  tossed  her  lightly  like  a  rose,  then  caught 
Her  falling  flushed  into  his  hands, 
Then  tossed  her  high  in  air  again,  and  cried, 
"Elsa,  my  rose!"  and  caught  her  to  his  breast. 
Then  how  the  tiny  maiden  leaped  and  laughed, 
As  if  she  heard  a  sweet,  familiar  sound, 
A  name  the  angels  whispered  in  her  ears, 
Just' as  they  kissed  her  at  the  brink  of  earth. 
But  Edith  whitened  with  a  sudden  pain, 
As  when  a  sudden  storm  is  on  the  lake,     . 
And  quick  as  thought  she  crossed  to  Walter's  side, 
Before  the  after,  wiser  thought  had  come, 
And  laid  rebuking  hands  upon  his  lips:  — 
"Not  that  name,  Walter,  do  not  call  her  that!" 
He  dropped  the  child,  who,  feeling  herself  wronged 
At  being  so  rudely  treated,  wailed  with  grief. 
He  looked  in  Edith's  face,  as  one  who  dreams, 
Or  half  awake  still  fancies  that  he  dreams, 
And  heard  a  smothered  sob  in  the  white  throat. 

35 


He  passed  into  the  street,  and  seemed  to  see 
All  things  like  flitting  shadows  through  a  mist. 
Men  jostled  him;  a  cabman,   reining  back. 
Cursed  his  slow  steps.    He  heard  the  rush  and  roar, 
Far-off,  like  distant  breakers  on  a  beach. 
And  all  day  long  he  heard  that  smothered  sob 
Which  made  him  start  and  blunder  at  his  work. 
Again  the  shadow  of  an  unseen  woe 
Slanted  across  the  future  years  and  sloped 
To  meet  his  shuddering  footsteps,  and  he  shrank. 

At  evening  Edith  met  him  with  her  smile, 

Unfailing  as  the  sunset.     She  observed 

His  unaccustomed  silence,  questioned  him, 

If  he  were  troubled,  very  tired  or  ill. 

He  only  pressed  his  hand  against  his  brow, 

And  Edith,  thinking  that  his  head  ached,  stroked 

His  forehead  with  her  cool,  soft  finger  tips. 

She  early  hushed  the  children  at  their  play, 

Sent  Robert  to  his  pictures,  and  took  up 

The  little  prattling  Elsa  on  her  knees, 

And  hummed  to  her  a  drowsy,  silvery  tune, 

Until  the  golden  head  reluctantly 

Drooped  on  the  mother's  bosom  like  a  flower. 

Another  morning  Walter  went  from  home 

To  hear  through  all  the  day  that  smothered  sob 

Which  made  him  start  and  blunder  at  his  work. 

At  evening  Edith  met  him  clad  in  white, 
And  smiling  like  the  sunset.     She  observed 

36 


..  His  silence,  but  refrained  from  questioning. 
She  early  hushed  the  children  at  their  play, 
And  with  the  little  Elsa  on  her  arm, 
Flushed  with  the  mystic  beauty  of  deep  sleep, 
Rocked  gently  to  and  fro,  and  softly  sang. 
She  lifted  up  her  eyes — she  knew  not  why, 
Except  that  something  drew  her,  and  observed 
That  Walter's  eyes  were  looking  keenly  at  her. 
"Walter,  what  vexes  you?"  she  gently  said. 
"Oh!   silence  may  be  best  when  all  is  well, 
When  thoughts  outrun  the  slowlier-moving  words 
To  meet  and  kiss,  and  hearts  keep  perfect  time, 
But  wrong  makes  wrong  of  silence,  when  a  word 
Might,  like  a  sunbeam,  melt  the  ice  which  else 
Would    grow    too    thick    for  warm   hearts    to    beat 

through ; 

And  he  is  no  true  lover  or  true  friend, 
Who  will  not  bravely  speak  the  fault  that  flaws. 
'Tis  noble  to  forgive — 'tis  nobler  still 
To  ask  to  be  forgiven;  and  this  I  know, 
That  even  if  frankness  should  be  harshly  met, 
'Twere  better  pride  should  bear  a  little  wound 
Than  risk  the  life-long  aching  of  two  hearts." 
Walter  arose,  still  looking  keenly  at  her, 
And  bent  above  her,  whitening  as  he  spoke: 
"Edith,  I  have  been  watching  you  of  late, 
And,  oh!   it  breaks  my  heart  to  see  you  grieve 
For  that  of  which  I  robbed  you.      It  was  this — 
The  fear  of  this  that  haunted  all  my  dreams 
Like  a  dark  spectre  ere  I  called  you  mine." 
A  flame  of  anger  flashed  in  Edith's  heart, 

37 


One  said  once,  "Love  is  blind,"  and  thereby  erred; 
With  eagle  eyes  she  faces  the  soul's  blaze, 
Sees  finest  flaws  where  she  craves  perfectness, 
But,  being  so  patient,  seemeth  not  to  see. 
Then  Edith  dropped  her  face  upon  her  hands, 
And  battled  with  herself  heroically, 
Repeating  to  herself,  "His  gravest  fault 
Is  loving  me  too  well.     Help  me,"  she  prayed, 
"O  God,  to  do  the  thing  I  ought,  to  be 
Patient  and  true  and  gentle."     Walter  stood 
Looking  upon  her,  knowing  not  she  pra)'ed. 
She  lifted  up  her  face  bathed  in  a  smile 
That  lit  her  like  an  angel:     "Walter,  listen! — 
'Tis  vain  to  watch;  what  life  is  sorrowless? 
Our  very  joys  make  shadows,  as  the  birds 
And  fruits  and  flowers  that  make  earth  beautiful, 
All  cast  a  little  shadow  in  the  sun. 
The  joy  you  brought  me  took  some  joy  away. 
Forgive  me,  Walter,  for  if  I  could  choose 
Again  to-day,  'twould  be  as  I  have  chosen. 
Be  patient  with  me,  Walter,  when    I  miss 
The  tender  face,  whose  never-clouded  smile 
Made  rosy  all  the  morning  of  my  life." 
He  drew  her  toward  him,  till  her  shining  head 
Lay  trembling  like  a  meteor  on  his  breast: 
"Edith,  forgive  the  shadow  of  distrust; 
'Tis  love's  intensity  makes  its  own  clouds. 
Forgive  me,  darling,  that  I  hurt  you   so." 
Then  Edith  looked  up,  smiling  in  his  eyes, 
Saying,  "Love's  rapier,  like  Achilles'  spear, 
Has  ever  power  to  heal  the  wounds  it  makes." 

38 


So  Walter's  heart  beat  joyously  again, 
And  swiftly  flew  the  days  like  happy  birds. 
O  happy  years,  O  happy,  hurrying  years, 
Why  is  it  ye  are  mad  with  haste?     Behold 
The  lagging  of  the  sorrowful,  slow  years. 

One  winter  night,  when  all  the  air  was  full 
Of  the  faint,  fairy  music  of  the  snow, 
Soft,,  rustling  wings  of  gently  jostling  flakes, 
Walter  and  Edith  sat  and  read  by  turns, 
And  now  the  "Romance  of  the  Swan's  Nest"  read, 
While  Robert  sat  near  by,  with  book  and  slate, 
And  little  Elsa,  perched  upon  the  arm 
Of  a  great  rocker,  swaying  to  and  fro, 
Sat  singing  like  a  linnet  on  a  limb, 
The  music  swelling  in  her  tiny  throat, 
And  over  all  the  glowing  grate-fire  threw 
Its  rosy  warmth  and  color.     Walter  read 
Just  as  the  song  began.     His  father's  heart 
Swelling  with  pride,  he  paused  a  while  to  listen, 
Then  bent  toward  Edith,   whispering  cautiously, 
Lest  he  should  fright  the  warbler  from  her  song, 
Asking  if  she  had  marked  the  wondrous  voice, 
And  Edith  smiled  and  nodded.     When  at  last 
The  carol  was  quite  finished,  Walter  sprang, 
And  caught  the  little  songster  in  his  arms, 
And  tossed  her  high,  and  caught   her  in  his  hands, 
Waving  her  hands  and  feet  in  mad  delight, 
And  tossed  her  high  again,  and  cried,  "My  bird! 
Now  the  old  tyrant  hunter  has  you  fast." 
And  ever  after  called  the  child  his  bird. 

39 


Now  Edith's  costly  jewels  were  all  sold 

From  out  the  casket  where  they  erst  had  lain, 

Twinkling  like  stars  within  a  midnight  sky, 

Single  and  double  stars  and  clusters  rare; 

And  still,  although    she    worked   and   planned   and 

saved, 

She  could  not  make  the  two  perverse  ends  meet. 
"I  will  not  speak  to  Walter,"  Edith  said, 
"Because  a  girl  less  delicately  bred 
Had  been  a  better  wife  to  Walter — yes, 
Had  made  our  modest  income  easily 
Supply  the  household  needs,  and  educate 
And  clothe  the  little  ones;  no,  I  must  find 
Some  work  to  do,  the  while  they  are  at  school, 
And  Walter  need  not  know."     But  what  and  how, 
Were  ever  restless  questions  in  her  brain. 

There  came  what  in  this  clouded  hour  appeared 
A  sunbeam,  but  which  darkened  afterward. 
So  seems  each  blessing  sometimes  half  a  curse, 
Each  angel  shape  that  gleams  athwart  the  gloom, 
Constrained  to  dip  its  wings  in  some  dark  pool. 
Martha,  the  good  nurse,  who  had  fondly  watched 
Her  infant  slumbers,  loved  her  as  her  own, 
Carne  to  her  on  a  late  autumnal  day. 
"My  heart  was  sick  to  see  my  pretty  child," 
She  cried,  the  strong  arms  round  the  slender  necka 
Bending  it  forward  like  a  lily  stalk, 
Almost  to  breaking.      "Is  my  sweet  child  well? 
And  is  my  white  dove  happy  with  her  mate? 
You  ought  to  hear  how  the  fine  people  talk.1' 

40 


"What  say  the  people,  Martha?"  Edith    asked. 
"They  say  you  were  a  silly,  senseless  girl 
To  slight  a  man  like  Lucius  Coventry, 
Who  is,  they  say,  a  kind  of  natural  king, 
And  take  up  with  a  clown  like  Walter  Gray; 
And  now,  no  doubt,  you're  miserable  enough." 
Then  Edith  crimsoned  from  her  slender  throat 
Up  to  the  golden  edges  of  her  hair. 
"Tell  them,"  she  said,  "that  I  am  happy;    say, 
I'd  not  change  kings  with  any  queen  on  earth. 
What  of  my  father?     Tell  me,  is  he  well, 
And  does  he  ever  seem  to  miss  his  rose?" 
"Miss  you,  dear  heart? — I've  never  seen  him  smile 
Ever  so  faintly  since  the  night  you  went. 
'Twould  make  you  weep  to  see  him  wandering 
From  room  to  room,  so  white  and  shadow-like. 
The  hand  that  lifts  the  goblet  to  his  lips 
Trembles  so  pitifully!     Miss  you? — he  keeps 
Your  room  just  as  it  was  the  night  you  went 
Sometimes  he  bids  us  air  and  dust  it,  then 
He  goes  to  see  that  all  things  are  replaced — 
The  white  dress  lightly  thrown  across  the  chair, 
The  handkerchief  you  dropped  upon  the  floor, 
The  Bible  open,  with  the  passage  marked 
Where  Ruth  clings  to  Naomi  with  sweet  words. 
I've  heard  him  pacing  up  and  down  your  room 
At  midnight,  and  one  night  I  heard  him  groan." 
Like  April  sky  was  Edith's  streaming  face, 
Half  shining,  half  in  shower,  glad  to  be  missed, 
But  sad  to  think  of  him  so  sorrowful. 
Said  Martha,  cuddling  up  the  little  one, 

41 


"II  lie  could  only  see  the  cherub  here, 
As  like  her  mother  as  I  ever  saw 
A  perfect  rosebud  like  a  perfect  rose, 
His  heart  would  melt — I'm  very  sure  of  that.1 
Then  Martha's  talk  went  wandering  through  events, 
Things  done,  things  rumored  done,  unspoken  words 
That  should  be  spoken,  spoken  ones  best  unsaid, 
Like  wind  through  tangled  grasses,  till  at  last, 
The  swift  autumnal  twilight  scared  away 
The  yellow  sunbeams  sleeping  on  the  floor. 
When  she  arose  to  take  her  final  leave, 
She  took  the  delicate  face  'twixt  her  large  hands, 
And  held  it  long,  and  kissed  it  many  times — 
Now  grown  more  lily-like  than  like  a  rose: 
."You  are  quite  happy  then,  my  pretty  child?" 
"Quite  happy,  only — "  and  the  sweet  voice  hung 
Upon  that  word  as  caught  upon  a  thorn. 
O  human  heart,  that  bitter  only  hides 
In  the  all-perfectness  of  every  joy. 
"Ah!    only  what?"  Then  Edith  simply  told 
How,  never  being  used  to  count  the  cost, 
And  save  the  pennies,  she  could  scarcely  make 
Their  modest  income  meet  their  household  needs, 
And  now  the  little  ones  were  sent  to  school, 
The  days  were  long  and  lonely,  and  she  thought 
'Twere  better  could  she  find  some  work  to  do 
To  help  a  little,  and  fill  up  the  hours; 
Could  Martha  think  of  something?      Martha  took 
The  delicate  hands  between  her  ample  palms, 
And  stroked  and  kissed  and  patted  them  and  wept, 
As  if  to  coax  from  them  some  happy  thought: 

43 


"To  think  these  pretty  hands  must  toil  for  bref 
And  plenty  wasted  in  your  father's  house! — 
But  I  will  set  my  little  wit  to  work, 
And  try  to  think  of  something  they  can  do." 
Then  she  remembered  how  those  fingers  flashed 
Over  the  gleaming  keys,  and  under  them, 
The  sound  of  winds  and  rippling  rivulets, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  crash  of  waterfalls 
And  tender,  tearful  sounds  that  stir  the  heart 

• 

With  mystical,  sweet  sorrow,  as  of  things 
Known  in  another  life,  and  now  forgot, 
Except  in  these  faint,  waking  moments.     Then 
She  queried,  why  not  write  to  some  old  friends, 
The  best  and  kindest,  frankly  ask  of  them 
To  let  her  teach  their  children?     Edith  smiled: 
"I  thank  you,  Martha,  I  will  think   of   it." 
And  she  did  think  of  it  for  nights  and  days, 
And  tried  to  tell  herself  if  it  were  wise. 

One  day  she  leaned  against  the  window  sill, 
Turning  the  problem  over  in  her  brain, 
When  a  tall  liveried  coachman  on  his  seat, 
By  his  familiar  motions  caught  her  glance. 
Within  a  man  sat  waiting.     Edith's  heart 
Beat  hard  against  her  bosom,  like  a  hand 
With  close-shut  fingers  upon  prison  bars. 
Then  Martha's  words  came  echoing  in  her  ears, 
"If  he  could  only  see  the  cherub  here, 
His  heart  would  melt — I'm  very  sure  of  that." 
She  called  the  little  Elsa  from  her  play: 
"Come,  birdie,  take  these  pennies  here,  and  run 

43 


Where  yonder  stands  the.  old  banana  man 
Upon  the  corner;  he  is  old  and  lame, 
And  all  day  long  has  had  but  little  trade; 
His  fruit  will  surely  spoil.     Now  run  away 
And  see  how  quickly  you  can  come  again. 
Be  careful,  darling,  when  you  cross  the  street. 
And  do  not  fall  upon  the  slippery  stones, 
Or  get  before  the  horses."     Like  a  bird, 
Wing-swift,  away  the  little  maiden  flew, 
And  Edith  watched  the  fairy  figure  dart 
Amid  the  jostling  throng,  the  little  feet 
Twinkling  across  the  stones,  the  yellow  curls 
Dancing  behind  her  in  the  autumn  wind. 
She  drives  her  little  bargain,  and  receives, 
Because  of  rosy  cheeks  and  flying  curls, 
A  whole  banana  over  purchase  price. 
Now,  swift  returning,  come  the  flying  feet; 
A  second  time  they  pass  the  carriage  door; 
Will  he  not  see  her?     Edith's  heart  beats  loud, 
Beat  tripping  beat,  they  seem  to  come  so  fast. 
What  stays  the  flying  feet?     Has  some  one  called? 
A  white  head  from  the  carriage  leans  and  looks. 
The  old  man,  stepping  to  the  pavement,  takes 
The  little  wondering  maiden  in  his  arms. 
One  hand  is  laid  upon  the  shining  hair, 
And  Edith  bows  her  head,  and  almost  thinks 
'Tis  on  her  head  that  gentle  hand  is  laid. 
He  kisses  her  on  either  glowing  cheek, 
Then  fumbles  in  his  pocket  till  he  finds 
Pencil  and  paper,  writes  some  hurried  words, 
And  slips  the  paper  in  the  dimpled  hand. 

44 


A  blinding  mist  comes  over  Edith's  eyes; 

She  hears  the  fairy  tread  upon  the  stairs; 

It  comes  at  last,  the  happy  word  has  come: 

"Edith,  my  rose,  my  darling,  come  to  me!" 

She  holds  the  crumpled  paper  to  her  lips, 

Then  opens  it  with  trembling  hands  and  reads: 

"Give  me  the  child;  the  child  is  not  to  blame, 

And  I  will  give  her  such  a  bringing  up, 

As  will  be  worthy  her,  and  worthy  me. 

Give  me  the  child."  And  then  the  trembling  name. 

Then  Edith  dropped  her  face  upon  her  hands, 

And  in  her  heart  the  flame  of  hope  died  down. 

Between  her  ringers  ran  the  swift,  bright  tears, 

One  after  other  fast  and  faster  fell, 

Until  it  seemed  there  were  no  more  to  weep, 

As  when,  once  having  broken  a  string  of  pearls, 

Each  after  each  slips,  leaving  a  pearlless  string. 

"My  father,  O  my  father,  is  it  well 

To  tear  your  rose  out  of  your  bosom  so?" 

Edith  arose,  and  resolutely  turned 
Her  face  upon  the  future,  and  her  back 
On  all  the  hopeless  sorrows  of  the  past; 
And  then  she  wrote,  in  frank  and  courteous  way, 
Some  letters  to  the  friends  of  other  days, 
The  best  and  kindest,  saying  modestly, 
They  would  recall  how,  in  her  girlhood  days, 
She  loved  the  art  of  music  best  of  all; 
And  now  the  the  little  ones  were  sent  to  school, 
The  days  were  long  and  lonely,  and  she  thought 
To  fill  the  hours  with  pleasant  work,  and  so 

45 


Increase  their  modest  income;    would  they  let 
Her  teach  their  children — she  would  strive  to  please. 
A  prompt  and  kindly  answer  came  from  each. 
Said  Edith  with  her  blue  eyes  full  of  tears — 
"The  world  is  not  so  cruel  after  all. 
Oh!  many  a  heart  is  full  of  gentleness, 
Sweet,  copious  springs  of  kindness,  if  we  will 
But  bend  a  little  to  receive  it."     So, 
Lightlier  Edith's  heart  beat  spite  its  wound, 
And  cheerily  she  daily  worked  and  planned, 
And  saved  a  little,  saying  to  herself, 
When  Walter's  brief  vacation  came  again, 
Beside  some  still,  blue  lake  or  running  stream, 
Where  there  is  heard  no  more  distracting  life 
Than  folding  and  unfolding  water  lilies, 
Singing  of  birds,  dew-drinking  of  the  flowers, 
Sighing  of  trees  and  grasses,  and  the  stir 
Of  sweet,  unsullied  air,  the  livelong  day, 
Far  off  from  all  the  city's  dust  and  din,— 
There  they  would  pass  their  second  honeymoon. 
Walter  would  look  at  her  in  mild  surprise, 
And  wonder  how  she  saved  it.      She  would  smile 
Into  his  eyes,  and  answer  playfully, 
"Would  any  untaught  maiden  bred  to  toil, 
Know  better  how  to  scrimp  and  save  than  she?" 
And  then  she  thought  how  Walter's  eyes  would  shine 
With  unshed  tears,  and  how  his  sweet,  firm  lips 
Would  tremble  with  unspoken  words  of  love. 
The  unsought  bliss  of  which  we  never  dream, 
Comes  to  us  with  a  fuller  wave  of  joy, 
Because  the  rosy  cup  drained  suddenly 

46 


No  bitter  lees  of  disappointment  has. 

But,  oh,  the  pictured  rapture  of  a  dream, 

O'er  which  the  heart  bends,  flushed  with  ecstasy, 

Supplying  here  and  there  a  tender  shade 

Or  happy  gleam  of  color!     Never  doubt 

But  that  some  cruel  chance,  with  mocking  hand, 

Will  draw  a  blighting  brush  across  your  work 

Ere  it  has  passed  into  reality. 

One  of  the  happiest  of  happy,  days, 
Just  as  the  purple  jags  of  twilight  fit 
Into  the  golden  edges  of  the  day, 
Walter  and  Edith,  in  the  Sabbath  calm, 
Gazed  at  the  sweet,  veiled  future  reverently, 
That  stood  like  Isis,  robed  in  mystery, 
When,  like  a  wild  bird  fluttering  through  the  door, 
A  dainty  little  maiden  flitted  in: 
She  could  not  take  her  lessons  for  a  week, 
And  teased  to  come  and  bring  the  word  herself. 
So  saying,  the  pretty  babbler  wound  her  arms 
About  the  neck  of  Edith,   who,  confused 
And  vexed  to  find  her  secret  out,  returned 
The  child's  caress,  but  looked  at  Walter;  he 
Looked  first  at  Edith,  then  upon  the  child, 
Like  one  who  has  been  wakened  suddenly; 
And  when  the  innocent  mischief-maker  went, 
He  murmured,  "Edith,  is  it  then  so  bad? 
Is  it  so  hard  to  make  our  little  reach 
To  all  our  needs?     So  often  I  have  seen 
The  weary  flush  upon  your  cheek  at  night, 
The  drooping  of  your  eyelids,  and  the  lines 

47 


Of  patient  care  about  your  sunny  mouth." 
Edith  replied:      "O  Walter,  be  not  vexed! 
The  days  were  long  and  lonely,  and  I  thought 
To  fill  the  empty  hours  with  pleasant  work. 
Perhaps  we  have  enough  for  simple  needs, 
But  is  it  well  to  keep  our  lives  pent  up 
In  such  a  narrow  channel?     Let  me  help 
To  widen  out  our  pathway  through  the  world." 
Walter  could  make  no  answer,  but  her  words 
Went  ringing  bell-like  on  from  thought  to  thought. 
Edith  was  silent,  knowing  not  his  mind, 
Fearing  her  words  might  jar  upon  his  mood. 

At  morn  he  kissed  her  silently,  and  went 
Down  the  long  street,  where  darkly  rolled  the  tide 
Of  roaring  life,  till  at  the  open  bridge, 
It  foamed  and  fretted,  while  the  splendid  boat 
Swept  like  a  stately  swan  toward  the  blue  lake, 
Churning  the  stagnant  water  to  faint  foam. 
On  plunged  the  tide  again  with  deafening  roar, 
And  Walter  swept  on  with  it.     What  was  that? — 
The  man  before  him  dropped  a  little  pack 
Of  papers  on  the  pavement.     Walter  stooped 
Mechanically,  and  took  it  up  to  see 
If  there  were  aught  of  value,  and  he  saw 
A  check  was  in  the  package,  and  made  haste 
To  overtake  the  loser,  but  he  swept 
Around  the  corner,  like  a  drifting  leaf 
Caught  by  a  counter  current,  and  sucked  down 
Into  the  raging  vortices  of    life. 
So  Walter  placed  the  check  within  his  desk, 

48 


And  there  it  lay  for  three  days.      On  the  third, 
He  chanced  upon  it;  it  had  been  forgotten. 
"Only  a  thousand,  but  enough  to  make 
My  darling's  pathway  blossom  for  a  while, 
Whose  delicate  feet  had  trod  on  dewy  flowers, 
Had  I  not  led  her  out  on  this  bleak  way." 
It  seemed  as  if  a  mist  on  Walter's  brain 
Lay  like  the  fog,  that,  rising  from  the  lake, 
Rolled  dark  above  the  city  that  day,  and  made 
The  noontime  as  the  night,  and  through  the  fog 
He  heard  the  words  of  Edith  toll  like  bells. 
The  pen  was  in  his  ringers,  where  it  hung, 
Vibrating  like  the  delicate  beam  of  fate, 
On  which  a  floating  feather  or  a  breath, 
Falling,  tips  suddenly  toward  good  or  ill. 
He  held  it  quivering,  till  a  breath  of  pain 
Jostled  the  springs  of  will;    then  Walter  bent, 
And  with  a  few  strokes  signed  forever  away 
His  right  to  honor,  peace  and  happiness. 
Forging  the  payee's  name  upon  the  check, 
He  cashed  it  with  the  money  of  the  house 
And  tossed  it  blindly  in  a  secret  drawer. 
That  night  a  gentle  wind  arose  and  swept 
The  dense  fog  from  the  city,  and  revealed 
The  passionless,  pure  stars,  and  Walter  woke. 
The  gentle  breath  of  sleep  had  blown  away 
The  vapors  from  his  brain;  thought  after  thought 
Flashed  out  of  his  unclouded  consicousness — 
What  he  had  done,  what  might  come  of  that  deed. 
An  icy  horror  ran  along  his  veins; 
His  heart  seemed  bursting  with  its  frozen  tears. 

49 


Then  Edith,  breathing  softly,  slipped  her  hand 

In  his,  as  by  command  of  some  sweet  thought 

Escaped  the  slumbering  will,  and  Walter  rose, 

Put  on  his  garments,  left  a  little  note 

For  Edith,  saying  he  was  called  away. 

He  leaned  above  the  dark  lake  from  the  pier, 

And  listened  to  it  rub  its  shaggy  sides 

Against  its  prison  bars  with  mournful  moan, 

Like  a  dumb,  helpless  creature,  hurt  and  bound, 

And  felt  a  fascination  in  his  blood 

To  leap  and  end  his  anguish.     So  he  leaned 

And  looked,  until  his  brain  swam  with  the  waves. 

Even  so  a  man  looks  in  upon  himself, 

And  thinks  upon  himself,  until  his  brain 

Grows  giddy,  and  he  seems  a  mere  machine. 

Listen — the  footfall  of  a  passer-by, 

That  lonely  hour,  and  near  that  lonely  spot! 

He  started,  but  what  matter? — no  one  cares, 

In  a  great  city,  what  another  does, 

Except  you  touch  on  his  self-interest.     Oh! 

Observe! — he  is  alive  and  quivering  then, 

As  if  you  had  touched  with  a  cold  steel  point 

Upon  a  naked  nerve.     For  Edith's  sake 

He  must  live  on;    perchance  he  might  escape 

The  consequences  of  that  rash,  blind  act; 

But  if  they  fell  upon  him  he  must  live 

To  tell  her  that  he  did  it  for  love's  sake. 

He  thought  how   her   old   friends,  would  wag  their 

heads, 

Smiling  the  devil's  smile  of  cool  sarcasm; 
Of  the  grim  triumph  in  her  father's  heart, 

50 


And  then  of  Edith  battling  on  alone; 
Of  all  her  shame  and  grief  and  loneliness; 
Then  of  his  children  with  their  sullied  names. 
So  many  pale  forms  of  that  one  grief  paced 
Through  the  dim  chambers  of  his  brain,  for  so 
The  knife  of  agony  has  many  blades: 
Grief  never  cutteth  with  a  single  edge. 
The  unseen  woe,  whose  shadow  went  before, 
Had  fallen  upon  him,  and  he  wrestled  there 
In  anguish,  till  the  stars  were  all  dissolved 
Into  the  rosy  dawn,  like  pearls  in  wine. 
For  many  days  he  thought  he  slept  too  sound, 
So  sound  his  head  ached  with  a  weary  dream 
Of  prison  walls,  and  courts,  and  unjust  men, 
Rushing  his  trial  through  with  cruel  haste, 
Unto  the  bitter  sentence — ten  blank  years 
Of  prison  life,  dead,  miserable  years. 

He  fancied  he  slept  still,  when  Edith  knelt 
And  laid  her  shining  head  against  his  breast: 
"Speak  to  me,  Walter!     Walter,  speak  to  me! 
Walter,  I  cannot  live  unless  you  speak!  " 
Then  Walter  looked,  and  knew  that  it  was  day. 
He  saw  the  glow  and  glory  of  the  west, 
As  the  sad  sunshine  slipped  along  the  world, 
Wooing  the  darkness;  for,  to  eyes  that  weep, 
The  sunshine  seemeth  sadder  than  the  night. 
"Edith,"  he  murmured  incoherently, 
"Is  it  worth  while  to  try  to  live  again, 
And  come  to  you  again  with  prison  taint 
Upon  my  lips,  to  kiss  you  and  the  babes?" 

51 


"O  Walter,  try  to  live,  and  let  our  love, 

Through  years  of  parting  grow  more  ripe  and  sweet, 

And  I  will  teach  the  little  ones  to  watch 

Your  coming,  talking  much  of  you  to  keep 

Your  memory  unfaded  in  their  hearts; 

And,  Walter,  I  will  strive  to  have  them  grow 

Noble  and  beautiful  to  welcome  you." 

"You  do  not  scorn  me  then,  my  darling?" 

"Scorn? 

Walter,  you  did  it  just  for  love  of  me. 
Now  if  a  pure  soul  do  a  righteous  thin-g 
For  love's  sake,  that  being  easy,  who  shall  say, 
That  if  a  noble  nature  wound  itself, 
Doing  a  thing  ignoble  for  love's  sake, 
That  being  so  hard,  this  love  is  less  divine?" 
He  leaned  his  noble  brow  on  the  bright  head, 
And  shuddered  with  a  mighty  storm  of  grief, 
Bathing  her  sweet  face  in  his  streaming  tears, 
That  mingled  with  her  own  like  blending  showers. 
The  children,  standing  by,  and  seeing  them  weep, 
Wept  for  the  grief  they  could  not  understand, 
Except  as  if  a  cloud  had  crossed  the  sun, 
And  flung  a  sudden  shadow  over  them, 
And  hid  the  smile  upon  the  lips  of  love. 
A  kindly  officer  with  tear-wet  eyes 
Took  up  the  little  Elsa  in  his  arms, 
And  held  a  colored  picture  to  her  view, 
Whereat  a  ripple  of  childish  laughter  drove 
Away  the  cloud,  and  checked  the  falling  tears, 
As  a  light  wind  might  chase  a  summer  shower; 
But  little  Robert's  face  was  very  grave. 

52 


"My  Edith,"  Walter  murmured,  "had  you  known, 
On  that  last  night  of  choice,  what  you  now  know, 
Would  you  have  chosen  then  as  you  did  choose? 
But  say  it  once  again,  and  I  will  live 
After  these  ten  long,  lifeless  years  in  tomb. 
Thank  God,  love  is  immortal!"     Edith  rose, 
Upon  her  girlish  face,  around  which  clung 
Her  soft  hair  like  a  golden  evening  cloud, 
The  light  of  an  ineffable  love  which  glowed 
Like  the  reflected  gleam  of  angel  wings 
From  some  far  height  of  heaven.    "Walter, "  she  said, 
"If  I  had  looked,  on  that  last  night  of  choice, 
Down  the  long,  winding  way  of  life  which  led 
From  that  bright  then,  even  to  this  sad  now, 
And  seen  the  thorns  awaiting  for  my  feet, 
Even  this  height  of  anguish  at  the  end, 
Crowned  with  the  snows  of  unwept,  frozen  tears, 
I  should  have  chosen  then  as  I  did  choose." 


PART  III 
DEATH 

So  Edith  sold  her  pretty  furniture, 
And  took  a  room  upon  a  noisy  street, 
Where  all  day  long  hoarse,  inarticulate  cries 
Of  the  street  venders,  and  the  beat  of  hoofs, 
The  rumble  of  heavy  carts,  and  the  shrill  scream 
Of  fretful  mothers  for  their  truant  brood, 
The  wrangling  of  rude  children,  and  the  broils 

53 


Of  miserably  mismated  men  and  women, 
The  din  of  barter,  the  discordant  shriek 
Of  jangling  whistles,  and  the  poison  breath 
Of  the  green  river,  crawling  like  a  snake 
Under  the  bending  bridges,  and  the  fog, 
Mixed  with  the  breath  of  factories  that  keeps 
The  golden  sunlight  tarnished,  and  beneath, 
The  black,  unresting  stream  of  human  life, 
Wearied  the  senses  from  the  dawn  till  night. 
Then  out  the  tired  people  swarmed  like  flies, 
And  crawled  upon  the  pavements  and  the  steps, 
And  clung  about  the  windows  and  the  doors,, 
And  so  they  gossiped,  laughed   and   quarreled    and 

sang. 

But  now  the  autumn  wind,  with  cutting  edge, 
Early  drove  in  the  people,  and  maintained 
A  kind  of  nightly  silence  in  the  street. 

Edith  toiled  bravely  on  from  day  to  day, 

With  breaking  heart,  but  with  a  steadfast  will. 

It  is  so  hard  to  spin  life's  golden  threads 

With  steady  hand,  and  no  one  by  to  say, 

"How  fares  thy  work?"  or,  "Love,  it  is  well  done." 

But  Edith  kept  the  little  ones  in  school 

And  comfortably  clothed  and  fed,  and  so 

The   glad,    white    Christmas   came    and    went,    and 

seemed 
No  Christmas  without  Walter. 

When  again 

The  sun  moved  north  with  summer  in  his  arms, 
The  little  Elsa  drooped  like  some  frail  flower. 

54 


A  languor  came  upon  her,  and  all  day 
She  sat  beside  the  window,  her  blue  eyes 
Turned  listlessly  upon  the  busy  street. 
Then  Edith  rose  at  sunrise  every  day, 
And  took  the  little  ones  to  breathe  the  air, 
That  from  the  lake,  which  in  the  morning  sun, 
Like  waves  of  liquid  silver  darkly  gleamed, 
Came    hastening    shoreward,    spray-washed,    sweet 

and  clean. 

The  children  played  together  in  the  sands, 
Or  watched  the  boatmen  sponging  out  their  boats, 
Or  the  white  sails  upon  the  distant  sky, 
Or  troops  of  men  and  boys  that  cityward 
Went  wending,  carrying  long  strings  of  fish; 
Or  laughed  with  glee,  as  one  retreating  wave, 
And  one  that  hurried  shoreward,  winged  with  foam, 
Met  and  leaped  up  together  in  the  sun, 
And  grappled,  white  with  anger,  and  rolled  over, 
Struggling,  dissolving  in  each  other's  arms. 
And  sometimes,  when  the  lake  was  wild  and  white, 
The  mad  waves  leaped  upon  the  gray  sea-wall, 
Like  wild,  caged  creatures,  and  fell  back  again, 
Or,  dashing  over,  chased  with  flying  foam, 
The  shouting  children,  who  had  ventured  near. 
But  often,  when  the  lake  was  blue  and  still, 
Save  for  light  ripples  made  by  gentle  winds, 
They  gathered  stones,  and  tossed  them  in  to  see 
How  soon  the  silver  dint  was  smoothed  away. 
But  Edith  sat  apart,  and  sadly  smiled, 
Or  spoke  some  gentle  word  of  kindly  cheer 
To  women,  who  had  brought  their  sickly  babes 

55 


To  drink  the  sweet  air,  ere  the  risen  sun 

Had  sapped  its  strength  and  sweetness.   Oft  she  took 

The  puny  little  creatures  in  her  arms, 

To  rest  the  tired  mothers,  while  she  asked, 

With  sweet,  compassionate  looks,  inviting  trust, 

How  life  went  with  them.    "Hard  enough!"  said  one. 

Her  husband  had  a  head  for  something  great, 

Handled  machines  as  children  play  with  toys, 

But  a  long,  wasting  fever  laid  him  low, 

Just  when  the  little  home  was  almost  theirs. 

And  what  with  payments  due  and  doctor's  bills, 

And  keeping  of  the  family,  all  was  gone; 

The  mortgage  was  foreclosed,  and  all  was  gone. 

"How  many  children?" 

"Eight,  too  young  to  work, 
And  one  a  cripple,  one  this  sickly  babe." 
Another  said  her  husband  lost  his  place 
To  make  room  for  a  foreman's  favorite. 
He  was  disheartened,  and  had  taken  to  drink, 
And  who  was  there  to  feed  six  hungry  mouths? 
And  since  the  little  one  was  cutting  teeth, 
And  fretting  with  the  fever  day  and  night, 
How  could  she  leave  it  now  and  go  away 
From  home  to  labor?    Edith's  gentle  heart 
Ached  for  the  great  world's  sorrow,  and  her   breast 
Swelled  with  a  holy  anger,  as*she  raised 
Her  eyes,  and  saw  within  the  morning  sun 
The  gleam  of  princely  mansions,  and  she  cried, 
"It  is  unjust,  dear  God,  it  is  unjust, 
That  a  few  men  should  idly  waste  enough 
To  lift  up  multitudes;  that  hearts  should  break, 

56 


And  souls  go  down  to  hell,  all  for  the  want 

Of  such  a  little  of  their  magic  gold 

As  would  not  cause  the  lady  slumbering  there 

Behind  her  silken  curtain,  to  deprive 

Her  poodle  of  a  single  lap  of  cream. 

O  God,  the  earth  is  bright  and  beautiful, 

So  lovely  that  we  laugh  with  pain-warped  lips, 

And  stored  with  ample  riches  for  us  all; 

Why  then  are  not  men  happier?" 

"Aye,  unjust!" 

The  woman  said,  "but  tell  it    not  to  God! 
What  does  he  care  for  all  our  toil  and  pain? 
Would  I  so  smite  my  sweet  child  lying  there, 
And  mix  his  golden  curls  with  dust  and  tears, 
Then  hear  him  wailing,  'Mother,  it  is  I, 
Here  by  thy  will  not  mine;  then  give  to  me 
Enough  to  live  without  such  agony!' 
But  God  will  hear  us  weeping  unto  death, 
Praying  till  we  lack  breath,   but  will  not  check 
One  cloud  in  heaven,  or  speed  one  beam  to  earth, 
For  all  our  prayers»and  weeping.      It  is  strange 
We  get  our  air  and  sunshine  without  tax. 
We'll  take  our  sunlight  bottled  by  and  by, 
And  buy  air  in  pound  boxes." 

In  those  days 

The  little  Elsa  brightened  for  a  while, 
But  drooped  again,  and  would  not  leave  the  house. 
She  sat  beside  the  window,  her  blue  eyes 
Turned  languidly  upon  the  busy  street. 
She  watched  the  children  flitting  to  and  fro, 
With  foaming  pitchers  of  vile-smelling  beer. 

57 


She  liked  to  have  the  organ-grinder  come 

And  sit  upon  the  curb  across  the  street, 

And  grind  out  his  monotonous  melodies; 

Or,  better  still,  the  three  Italian  boys, 

Who  played  upon  the  harp  and  violins 

Some  tender,  plaintive  melodies  which  struck 

A  hidden  chord  of  sadness.     Once  she  saw 

A  ragged  woman  searching  with  a  stick 

Among  the  garbage  for  discarded  food. 

Her  blue  eyes  filled  with  pitying  tears;    she  cried) 

She  has  no  dinner  for  her  little  ones; 
I  am  not  hungry,  mother;  give  her  mine." 
And  once  she  saw  a  woman  carrying 
A  barrel  filled  with  kindling,  on  her  back. 
She  hid  her  face  behind  her  little  hands, 
And  wept  aloud,  and  Edith,  bending,  asked, 
"What  grieves  my  darling?" 

"Oh!  I  only  thougn*,  - 
She  sobbed,  "dear  mother,  what  if   that  were  you!" 

One  morning,  when  the  sun  rose  fierce  and  red, 
The  tired  child  took  up  her  mother's  hand, 
And  laid  it  on  her  flushed  cheek  coaxingly, 
And  murmured,  "Do    not    leave    me!"     Edith    sent 
A  message  to  her  patrons,  telling  them 
She  could  not  come  until  the  child  was  well. 
And  so,  for  many  days  she  sat  and  watched 
The  wasting  iever  burn  the  little  life 
Low  in  its  fragile  socket,  till  at  last 
Only  a  faint  spark  flickered.      All  that  day, 
The  cruel,  yellow  sun  beat  through  the  blinds^ 

58 


And  Edith  hung  in  anguish  o'er  the  child, 
Bathing  the  burning  lips  and  fevered  brow, 
And  stroking  back  the  tangled  yellow  curls, 
Marking  the  wandering  gaze  of  the  blue  eyes, 
Speaking  fond  words,  and  praying  in  her  heart. 
While  Robert  hovered  round  his  sister's  couch, 
And  kissed  the  little  burning  hands,  and  asked 
A  thousand  times,  "Is  sister  better  now?" 
All  day  the  little  one  tossed  restlessly, 
Moaning  upon  her  pillow.      When  the  eve 
Closed  in  with  clouds  and  thunder,  Robert  stood 
And  watched  the  bounding  raindrops  on  the  sill, 
His   young   heart  bathed   with    prayer   like   flower 

with  dew, 

Until  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  street, 
Then  lay  beside  the  little  one  to  watch, 
But,  child-like,  fell  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 
And  then,  as  if  the  shadow  of  sleep's  soft  wing 
That  brooded  him,  had  touched  the  little  one, 
A  light  and  troubled  slumber  fell  on  her. 
Then  Edith,  falling  prone,  lay  motionless, 
As  one  that  hath  no  strength  to  weep  or  moan, 
Her  delicate  cheek  pressed  hard  against  the  floor. 
Out  slipped  the  fastenings  from  her   gleaming  hair, 
That  rippled  like  a 'golden  rivulet  down, 
And  lay  in  shining  waves  along  the  floor. 
Out  burst  the  full  moon  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
Through  clouds  blown  leaf-like  open  either  side. 
Then  Edith  cried  a  strong  and  bitter  cry: 
"Walter,  O  Walter,  Walter!"   and  again  — 
"My  father,  O  my  father!  "  and  then  hushed 

59 


That  sharp-edged  cry  upon  her  lips,  for  fear 

That  it  might  cut  the  silken  cords  of  sleep, 

Which  bound  the  little  sufferer  a  while. 

Then  all  was  midnight  silence,  save  outside, 

The  boisterous  laughter  of  a  merry  crowd 

Of  homeward-straggling  revelers,  and  again — 

A  solitary  whistler  in  the  street, 

The  bellowing  of  a  great  boat  at  the  bridge, 

Or  the  fierce,  petulant  screaming  of  a  tug, 

And  not  far  off  the  cry  of  a  sick  child. 

Edith  stretched  forth  her  hands  and  softly  prayed, 

"Take  me,  O  God,  take  me,  but  spare  the  child!" 

The  memory  of  a  scornful,  bitter  smile 

Was  burning  in  her  bosorn  like  a  rlame, 

Whose  embers  were  the  cruel  words:      "Except 

You  or  your  children  hunger "  and  again — 

"The  child  is  not  to  blame;  give  me  the  child." 
So  saying  to  herself,  "If  I  should  die, 
He  would  receive  my  children  to  his  heart, 
And  love  them  as  his  own,"  she  softly  prayed, 
"Take  me,  O  God,  take  me,  but  spare  the  child." 
Then,  rising  up,  she  saw  a  woman's  form 
Beside  the  couch,  and  started,  pale  with  fear, 
Thinking  a  phantom  came  to  take  the  child. 
But  Martha  said,  "I  heard  the  babe  was  ill, 
And  could  not  wait  till  morning."     Edith  fell 
On  Martha's  bosom,  weeping  piteously. 
And  Martha  folded  her  puissant  arms 
About  the  quivering  form,  and  kissed  her  hair, 
And  soothed  her  like  a  sick  and  we*ary  child. 
Skilled  in  the  art  of  nursing,  Martha  knew 

60 


The  thing  to  do,  and  better  still,  the  thing 

Not  to  be  done,  and  ere  a  week  was  gone, 

A  gentle  moisture  on  the  tender  skin 

Lay  like  the  evening  dew  upon  a  rose 

That  has  been  drooping  all  a  summer  day. 

Slowly  the  little  life  came  fluttering  back, 

Like  a  reluctant  bird,  that,  half  escaped 

Between  the  wires,  is  coaxed  into  its  cage, 

But  not  the  joyous,  bounding  life  of  old. 

The  pale  child  leaned  against  her  mother's  knees. 

And  chirruped  a  few  faint  wood-notes  plaintively, 

Or  oftener  lay  upon  her  mother's  arm, 

And  listened  to  some  pretty  fairy  tale; 

And  Edith  had  no  heart  to  go  away. 

So  in  the  chill  autumnal  days  she  searched, 

And  found  some  work  that  she  could  do  at  home. 

The  little  Edith  loved  to  sit  and  watch 

Her  mother's  white  hands  flashing  in  and  out 

The  rainbow-colored  worsteds,  as  she  wove 

The  green  and  crimson  and  the  blue  and  gold 

Into  the  little  jackets,  caps  and  skirts. 

But  medicines  and  coal  and  food  and  rent, 
And  clothing  for  the  children,  pressed  her  sore, 
Till  she  was  forced  to  find  a  cheaper  room, 
Up  three  long  flights  of  stairs  against  the  roof, 
Which  only  had  the  strangled  light  and  air, 
That  came  through  one  small  window  opening  out 
Upon  a  gloomy  passage,  where  the  light, 
Sallow  and  sickly,  through  a  skylight  fell. 
And  there,  through  many  a  dark  and  gloomy  day, 

61 


She  worked  with  aching  eyes  and  throbbing  bro"  , 

Turning  sometimes  the  gaslight  on  at  noon, 

And  heard  far  off  the  roaring  sea  of  life, 

Like  long,  low  thunder;   scarcely  marked  at  all 

The  languor  of  her  limbs,  the  short,  dry  cough, 

Or  checked  the  flying  fingers  to  abate 

The  sudden,  cruel  pain  that  pierced  her  chest. 

And  once  a  crimson  rill  burst  from  her  lips, 

And  stained  the  purple  jacket  in  her  hands. 

So  the  long,  weary  winter  wore  away, 
And  summer  panted  in  the  veins  of  earth. 
Climbed  little  Elsa,  on  a  da}7  in  June, 
Up  the  steep,  wooden  stairs  with  dancing  feet; 
She  had  not  moved  so  blithely  for  a  year; 
And  Edith  looked  up  smiling  when  she  broke 
All  quivering  like  a  sunbeam  through  the  room. 
Then  breathlessly  she  told,  with  shining  eyes, 
How  the  rich  lady  in  the  great  stone  house 
Around  the  corner,  had  two  pretty  dogs, 
As  white  as  snow,  with  noses  black  as  jet, 
With  silver,  tinkling  bells  around  their  necks, 
With  'broidered  crimson  blankets  over  them, 
That  slept  in  baskets  lined  with  gorgeous  plush. 
But  after  luncheon,  when  my  lady  slept, 
The  little  darlings,  at  their  merry  play, 
Disturbed  her  with  their  frolics;  she  would  give 
The  little  girl  five  cents  an  afternoon, 
To  watch  them  at  their  gambols,  and  restrain 
Them  when  they  grew  too  boisterous;  could  she  go? 

A  crimson  wave  of  anger  overswept 

62 


The  marble  forehead:  an  indignant  no 

Trembled  on  Edith's  lips;   a  second  thought 

Restrained  it;    no,  it  could  not  harm  the  child; 

She  would  be  better  for  more  light  and    air, 

And  hours  of  frolic.     "Yes,  a  little  while," 

She  said,  "a  while,  till  Robert's  school  is  out." 

And  so  my  lady,  who  had  gone  abroad, 

And  bought  the  title  nature  had  refused, 

Slept  tranquilly  the  golden  afternoons, 

While  little  Elsa  tenderly  restrained 

Her  boisterous  pets,  and  sometimes  wistfully 

She  gazed  upon  the  dish  of  yellow  cream 

Their  slender,  scarlet  tongues  lapped  daintily, 

The  tempting  cakes  they  crumbed  upon  the  floor. 

Now  when  at  four  my  lady  went  to  drive, 

On  either  side  of  her,  complacently, 

With  canine  gravity  they  sat  and  looked 

Down  on  the  little  maiden,  as  she  thought, 

With  lofty  condescension,  and,  withal, 

An  arrogant,  commiserating  gaze. 

"O  mother,"  once  sfie  cried  with  tearful  eyes, 

"I  wish  I  were  a  pretty  little  dog, 

Just  long  enough  to  ride  far,  far  away, 

Where  there  are  many  birds  and  trees  and  flowers!1 

The  mother's  heart  grew  bitter  in  her  breast. 
A  morning  came  when  Edith  could  not  rise, 
But  struggled  to  her  elbow,  and  fell  back, 
Fainting,  upon  her  pillow.     Days  went  on, 
And  still  the  busy  fingers,  white  and  limp, 
Lay  motionless  upon  the  coverlid. 

63 


Veiled  in  the  shadow  of  the  night,   she  wept 

Hot  tears  that  burned  her  eyelids,  murmuring, 

"O  Walter,  I  have  tried  to  w'ait  for  you; 

Were  I  a  little  stronger  1  could  wait, 

But  I  am  tired,  so  tired,  and  sick  at  heart. 

I'll  wait  for  you  in  heaven — I  am  so  tired!" 

She  wrote  a  letter  in  a  tremulous  hand, 

And  on  the  back,  the  name  of  Robert  Earle, 

And  kissing  it,  as  one  might  kiss  a  flower, 

That  some  dear  hand  has  touched,  or  soon  will  touch, 

Placed  it  beneath  her  pillow,  whispering, 

"Not  a  reproachful  word,  my  father,  not  one; 

Your  rose  has  no  more  thorns  to.  hurt  you  with! 

Not  a  regretful  word,  my  father,  not  one; 

Because  my  angels  have  been  crowned  with  thorns, 

They  are  not  less  my  angels — I  have  chosen." 

Spoke  little  Robert,  bending  over  her, 

"Dear  mother,  there  is  nothing  left  to  eat." 

Then  Edith  answered,  wandering  in  her  mind: 

"How  strange  I  should  forget  my  little  ones! 

Wait,  Robert,  till  I  rest  a  little  while, 

Then  I  will  rise  and  set  you  out  some  food." 

Said  Robert  tenderly,  his  manly  lips 

All  quivering  with  anguish,  "I  will  go 

And  try  to  sell  some  papers;  I  will  come 

As  quickly  as  I  can,  and  bring  some  food." 

The  great  sun,  like  a  furnace  of  the  gods, 
Replenished  with  a  hundred  dead  old  worlds, 
Blazed  that  day  with  a  fierce  and  yellow  glare, 
Till,  like  a  web  of  incandescent  fire, 

64 


Woven  above  the  city,  its  wires  glowed, 

And  every  shadow  lay  oasis-like, 

Darkling  within  the  desert  of  white  light, 

With  gasping  men  and  women  overfull. 

Horses  and  men  sank  in  the  reeking  tide 

Of  human  life,  and  every  now  and' then, 

A  pale,  white-sheeted  form  was  borne  away 

To  dismal  morgue  or  hospital  or  home. 

Like  idle  sails,  the  leaves  hung  listlessly. 

The  wretches  used  to  sleeping  in  the  sun, 

At  noontime,  on  the  lake  shore,  crept  away, 

Seeking  a  shadow,  for  the  blue  lake  slept, 

Placid  and  pitiless,  puffed  its  burning  breath 

Into  the  strangled  city.     With  scorched  cheeks, 

And  brows  burned  to  their  helmets,  faithfully 

The  brave  policemen  faced  the  blasting  sun, 

Upon  the  blazing  corners  of  the  streets. 

The  sun  went  down  in  splendor,  hemmed  about 

With  sunset  clouds  upon  each  other  heaped, 

Like  Pelion  on  Ossa.      Peak  on  peak, 

They  piled  in  glory  'round  the  feet  of  night. 

Then  the  clear  stars,  like  mocking,  tearless  eyes, 

Burned  through  the  humid  darkness    and  the  lamps 

Threw  out  their  rainbow  fringes. 

"Paper,  sir? 

I  cannot  sell  them,  sir,  and  we  have  had 
No  supper,  and  my  mother  is  so  sick." 
A  white-haired  man  upon  the  corner  stood, 
Waiting  a  car.      When  little  Robert  thrust 
The  paper  toward  him,  he  looked  kindly  down, 
And  through  his  frame  a  sudden  shiver  ran, 

63 


As  if  the  hot  south  wind  had  turned  to  sleet, 

And  pierced  him  through  and  through.     He  stretched 

his  hand, 

And  dropped  it  like  a  withered  autumn  leaf 
Upon  the  child's  head,  asking  tremulously, 
"What  is  your  name,  my  boy?     Tell  me  your  name." 
"Robert  Earle  Gray!" 

"I  knew  it,  yes,  I  knew  it! 
The  violet  eyes  are  Edith's,  and  the  brow; 
But  the  thick  locks,  and  grave,  unyielding  mouth 
And  proud  smile,  are  his  father's.     Edith's  boy, 
Bearing  my  name  too!    Edith's  child,  her  son! 
Tell  me  your  street  and  number,  Robert  Gray." 
And  then,  as  Robert  answered  wonderingly, 
A  shining  coin  was  dropped  upon  his  palm, 
That  made  his  large  eyes  shine  with  speechless  joy. 
He  faltered,  "Thank  you!"  but  the  old  man  turned 
And  hailed  the  passing  horse-car.      Robert  Earle, 
Pacing  his  lonely  chamber  on  that  night, 
Felt  his  heart  bursting  with  pent  agony, 
And  from  his  lips  there  broke  a  heavy  moan 
Against  the  desolate  silence  of  the  night, 
Like  a  great  wave  upon  a  barren  rock: 
"Edith,  my  rose,  my  darling,  sick,   alone, 
Trodden  down  somewhere  in  the  mire  and  slime 
Of  this  great  city— somewhere  sick,  alone — 
Weeping  alone  in  some  close,  stifling  den! 
My  God!     My  God!   it  need  not  thus  have  been, 
If  I  had  acted  nobly,  and  obeyed 
The  inmost  angel  promptings  of  my  heart. 
I  think  if  I  had  given  a  helping  hand 

66 


To  Walter,  he  had  been  a  better  man; 
And  I  had  been  so  happy  all  these  years, 
With  Edith's  tender  smile  to  light  the  house, 
Keeping  a  twelve-month  bloom  about  the  hearth, 
And  Edith's  children  climbing  on  my  knees." 
No  sorrow  strikes  its  aching  roots  so  deep 
Into  the  heart,  as  that  whose  seed  we  sow 
Ourselves,  in  anger,  pride  or  heedlessness. 
No  bitterer  cry  can  pierce  the  ear  of  heaven 
Than  this:      "My  God,  it  need  not  thus  have  been, 
If  I  had  acted  nobly,  and  obeyed 
The  inmost  angel  promptings  of  my  heart." 

So  Robert  Earle  his  lonely  chamber  paced 
Through  all  the  livelong  night,  as  he  had  paced 
It  many  another  night.      When  he  had  heard 
Of  Walter's  crime  and  sentence,  he  had  felt 
A  kind  of  cruel  triumph,  muttering: 
"Now  surely  she  will  come  to  me  again, 
And  I  will  pardon  her,  and  take  her  in, 
And  love  her  children  as  my  own. "      Sometime"^ 
We  fail  most,  when  we  seem  to  triumph  most, 
Or  triumph,  when  we  seem  the  most  to  fail. 
A  year  went  by,  and  Edith  did  not  come, 
Asking  his  pity,  pardon,  or  his  aid. 
Upon  the  eve  of  a  fierce  summer  day, 
When  wild  storm  winds  were  sobbing  out  of  sound, 
In  lightning-steeded  clouds  that,  chariot-like, 
On  wheels  of  thunder,  rolling  lakeward  went, 
And  out  the  moon  burst  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 
Amid  the  dying  sounds  of  wind  and  rain 

67 


And  distant  thunder,  ringing  through  the  night, 

He  thought  he  heard  ajoud  and  bitter  cry. 

The  voice  was  Edith's,  only  sharp  with  pain: 

"My  father,  O  my  father!"   Robert  Earle 

Paused,  whitening  to  the  white  edge  of  his  hair, 

And  swaying  like  a  tall  pine  in  the  blast, 

Then  staggered  to  the  window,  flung  it  wide, 

And  leaned  his  silver  head  into  the  night 

Until  the  dripping  eaves  had  drenched  his  locks, 

And  all  his  heart  went  out  to  meet  that  cry. 

He  would  forgive  her,  find  her,  bring  her  home; 

And  ere  he  knew,  he  sent  an  answering  cry 

Ringing  along  the  darkness  of  the  night: 

"Edith,  my  rose!"     And  then  he  started  back; 

It  was  a  trick  of  fancy — he  would  wait 

A  little  longer;  she  would  come  to  him. 

Beware,  who  drive  some  sweet  emotion  back 

Upon  the  heart,  and  will  not  let  it  break 

Upon  the  shores  of  action,  for  behold, 

Its  white  soul-inspiration,  foam-like,  melts, 

As  it  recedes  into  the  depths  again, 

And  new  emotions,  foaming,  forward   press. 

Act  'neath  the  flush  of  purpose,  like  a  light!  — 

Speak  with  the  dew  of  longing  in  thy  heart, 

For  there  are  angel  touches  on  the  will,. 

Which,  slighted,  come  no  more.      A  year  passed  by, 

And  Edith  did  not  come;  and  so  to-night 

Paced  Robert  Earle  his  lonely  chamber  through, 

And  waited  till  the  tempest  in  his  soul 

Should  have  abated.      When  the  first  faint  pulse 

Of  light  had  quickened  in  the  purple  veins 

68 


Of  the  far  east,  he  reached  with  trembling  hand, 
And  rang  the  bell:     "Bring  me  the  carriage,  John!  " 

Came  Robert  to  his  mother  joyously, 
With  laden  arms,  and  in  his  close-shut  hand 
A  shining  heap  of  silver.      Edith  smiled, 
A  strange,  bright  smile,  like  a  fore-radiance 
Of  the  new  dawn  at  hand  of  a  new  world. 
She  tasted  not  the  dainty  food  he  brought, 
But  drew  the  letter  from  beneath  her  head 
And  gave  it  unto  Robert,  whispering, 
So  softly  that  it  seemed  like  a  light  wind 
Sighing  along  the  grass,  and  Robert  leaned 
To  catch  the  words  that  trembled  from  her  lips: 
"At  early  morning  go,  deliver  this. 
To-night  I  go  away,  a  long,  long  way. 
Come  here,  my  bird,  and  listen — I  go  away.     * 
Be  strong  and  pure  and  gentle;  never  forget 
You  have  a  noble  father,  who  will  come 
Some  day  to  claim  his  darlings;  welcome  him 
With  tenderest  love,  and  gladden  all   his  life. 
Sing  'Jesus,   Lover  of  my  Soul,'  my  bird." 
And  then  the  little  maiden,  linnet-like, 
Perched  by  the  pillow,  raised  her  tiny  voice, 
The  human  instinct  of  the  sorrowful 
Making  the  sweet  notes  quiver  with  a  grief 
But  vaguely  comprehended,  like  a  cloud 
That  darks  the  sunlight  of  a  day  in  June. 
A  splendor  fell  upon  the  dying  face, 
A  kind  of  angel  wonder,  like  the  light 
That  well  might  break  across  an  angel's  face, 

69 


Who,  underneath  a  heavenly  palm-tree,  smiles, 

To  hear  across  ethereal  night  and  hush, 

Some  new  star  singing  its  creation  hymn. 

The  song  being  ended,  Edith  seemed  to  sleep, 

And  Robert  took,  with  manly  tenderness, 

His  little  sister  on  his  knees,  and  rocked 

Her  to  and  fro,  and  hushed  the  childish  talk 

Into  a  quiet  whisper,  lest  it  break 

The  sleeper's  fragile  sleep.     When  the  first  pulse 

Of  light  had  quickened  in  the  purple  veins 

Of  the  far  east,   then  Edith  woke,  arose, 

And  stretching  out  her  hands,  as  if  she  clasped 

The  hands  of  one  before  her,  whispered,  "Come!" 

And  then,  as  if  a  pitying  angel  stood, 

Holding  the  soul  of  that  last  lover's  kiss, 

Until  the  fitting  moment,  when  he  leaned, 

And  laid  it  like  a  glory  on  her  lips, 

She  smiled  and  murmured,  "Walter,  I  have  chosen.' 

Then  fell  back  on  her  pillow,  and,  smiling,  died. 

Then  there  arose  a  piteous,  plaintive  cry, 

As  from  young  birds  the  hunter's  cruel  shot 

Has  left  unmothered  in  the  fragile  nest, 

Exposed  to  night  and  storm  and  heartless  hands. 

Within  the  open  door  stood  Robert  Earle, 
And  from  his  lips  there  broke  a  heavy  groan, 
Like  a  great  sound  of  heart-break:    'God,  too  late!' 
Then,  coming  near,  he  took  the  little  ones 
Upon  his  heaving  bosom,  faltering, 
"Her  last  words!     Can  you  tell  her  very  last?" 
Said  Robert,  weeping,   "Walter,  I  have  chosen." 

70 


PART  IV 
RESURRECTION 

Forth  from  his  tomb  at  last  came  Walter  Gray, 
Threw  back  his  head  to  let  the  soft  air  feel 
With  cool,  sweet  touches  'round  his  face  and  throat, 
With  a  wild  throb  of  life  along  his  veins. 
No  angel  rolled,  with  noiseless  finger-touch, 
A  white  stone  from  his  sepulcher  away, 
But  hard  the  heavy  doors  behind  him  clanged, 
Like  a  loud  clap  of  thunder,  and  he  stood, 
Drinking  the  golden  air  and  sunlight — free! 
And  that  one  thought  of  rapture  swelled  his  soul, 
Like  a  pure  wind  that  fills  a  snow-white  sail. 
So  easy  'tis  to  glad  the  heart  of  man! 
For,  like  a  golden  sunbeam  through  the  dark, 
One  smile  can  make  life  sweet  and  liveable. 
How  would  the  world  look  without  Edith  now, 
Whose  smile  had  been  in  color  of  all  clouds, 
Whose  voice  in  all  the  music  of  the  waves, 
Who  made  a  part  of  all  things  unto  him? 
Had  he  forgotten  when  a  summer  day 
Was  dying  in  the  arms  of  night  and  storm, 
He  heard  the  cry  of  Edith  through  the  night, 
So  sharp  and  strong  it  pierced  the  heavy  walls — 
"Walter,  O  Walter,  Walter!"   and  he  cried, 
Out  of  a  weary  dream,  "My  darling,  here!" 
The  voice  was  silent  now  forevermore 
That  never  by  a  harsh  word  was  untuned, 

71 


But  sweet  with  unspent  kisses,  like  low  wind 
Soft  with  the  unshed  drops  of  summer  rain. 
Edith  was  gone;    had  he  forgotten  the  night 
That  word  of  lightning  pierced  the  prison  wall, 
And  struck  his  shuddering  heart  with  double  death — 
A  death  in  death?     Nay,  he  had  not  forgotten, 
But  life,  dear  God,  is  sweet,  in  spite  of  fire 
Upon  the  brain,  and  frost  upon  the  heart. 
Some  hours  are  sweet  still,  with  the  sweetest  flown; 
Some  hearts  are  dear  still,  with  the  dearest  dead; 
And  Walter  had  his  little  boy  and  girl. 
That  ten  years  seemed  like  a  night's  sleep  to  him, 
And  a  night's  sleep  divides,  like  a  soft  hand, 
A  bright  day  from  a  day,  like  wave  from  wave, 
And  cheats  old  Time  a  little  of  his  power. 
It  seemed  but  yesterday  his  little  ones 
Clambered  like  squirrels  up  and  down  his  arms, 
His  fingers  twined  amid  their  flower-like  locks; 
Their  little  kisses  moist  were  on  his  cheeks; 
The  music  of  their  light,  gazelle-like  feet 
And  little  laughing  lips  were  in  his  ears. 
The  golden  waves  of  sunlight  gently  beat 
Against  his  quivering  eyelids,  and  above, 
Light  clouds,  with  snowy  fleece  and  windy  feet, 
Chased  one  another  through  the  fields  of  heaven. 

Back  to  the  city,  through  old  walks  and  ways, 
Drifting  and  drifting,  like  a  last  year's  leaf, 
With  no  will  but  the  wind's,  so,  on  and  on, 
Upon  the  ceaseless  tide  of  human  life, 
That  writhed  and  twisted  in  and  out  the  streets, 

72 


Alleys  and  tunnels,  till  he  leaned  at  last 

Against  a  granite  pillar,  weary  and  sad. 

Above  him  rose  a  grand,  gray,  massive  pile 

In  its  gray  dignity  of  stone  and  tower, 

The  city's  latest  glory,  and  beneath, 

The  pavement  seemed  to  gently  rise  and  sink, 

In  slow  pulsations,  timing  with  the  lake. 

Heedless  of  one  another,  and  of  him, 

The  people  rushed  by,  each  on  some  mad  quest 

Of  personal  gain  or  glory.      How  they  jarred 

And  jostled  one  another,  each  one  deep 

In  his  own  tangled  meshes  of  desire, 

Lost  like  a  spider  snarled  in  his  own  web. 

No  one  would  know  him  whom  the  state  disnamed, 

And  numbered  in  a  deep  baptism  of  shame. 

Amid  the  clash  and  clatter  of  the  street, 

Came  drifting  human  accents  rich  and  low — 

A  wave  of  music  on  a  sea  of  sound. 

Each  heart-beat  made  a  ripple  in  the  voice 

That  murmured  over  it.      He  caught  his  breath — 

Like  hers,  but  not  hers — golden  tresses  too! 

"For  Charlie's  Christmas  greeting  when  he  wakes!" 

The  throbbing  voice  was  saying.     Walter  clung 

Close  to  the  granite  pillar — Christmas,  then — 

Christmas  was  coming — that  which  used  to  be 

The  happiest  day  of  all  the  happy  year. 

He  raised  his  eyes,  and  a  familiar  face 
Gleamed  out  amid  the  strangeness  like  a  light. 
His  heart  cried  out,  "A  friend!"  as  from  the  shore, 

73 


A  shipwrecked  sailor  cries,  "A  sail,  a  sail!" 
"Martyn,  old    friend!"  he    cried,  and    stretched  his 

hand. 

They  had  been  friends  in  Walter's  prosperous  days, 
When,  condescending  somewhat  from  his  height 
Of  seeming  affluence,  he  had  deigned  to  ask 
A  modest  loan  of  Walter  in  a  strait. 
The  wheel  of  fortune,  turning  suddenly, 
Had  whirled  him  to  the  bottom,  and  with  him, 
A  hundred  men  and  women,  who,  unversed 
In  subtle  trickery  and  slick  disguise 
Of  wise  world  ways,  had  trusted  him  too  much. 
Then  Martyn's  wife  was  suddenly  possessed 
Of  unguessed  riches;  with  her  jeweled  hand 
Turned  back  the  wheel  of  fortune,  lifted  him 
Into  the  public  favor  and  social  smile, 
But  left  his  trusting  victims  in  the  ruin. 
Back  drew  the  man,  and  ran  an  insolent  glance 
Cool,  keen-edged,  up  and  down  the  cowering  form, 
And  passed  on  like  a  stranger.      Walter's  heart 
Was  bitter  in  his  bosom.      "Who  is  wronged, 
Except  my  wretched  self  and  those  I  love?" 
So,  leaning  on  the  pillar,  Walter  mused, 
And  fancied  that  the  lap-dogs,  riding  by, 
With  silver  bells  and  bright  embroidered  coats, 
Looked  sideways  at  him  as  they  sniffed  the  air. 

A  gentle  hand  was  laid  upon  his  arm, 
The  only  gentle  thing  that  he  had  met, 
And  Martha  whispered,  "This  is  Walter  Gray." 
"Hush,  Martha,  say  it  not — I  have  no  name," 

74 


He  said,  but  kissed  with  joy  the  withered  cheek, 
All  wet.  with  tears,  half  sorrow,  half  delight. 
"Forgive  these  tears — my  heart  spills  over,  sir." 
"God  bless  you,  Martha,  for  I  think  he  led 
You  to  me  in  my  anguish,  dear,  kind  soul!" 
When  sorrow  strikes  its  lightning  through  our  days, 
The  hearts  to  which  we  look  for  kindly  help, 
Unquestioning,  as  the  rose  to  heaven  for  rain, 
Most  often  will  have  nothing  sweet  to  give; 
While  out  of  hearts  of  which  we  least  had  thought, 
Burst  sparkling  springs  of  human  kindliness. 
"The  children,  Martha,  tell  me— what  of  them! 
Does  Aunt  Maria  have  the  children  still?" 
"The  children,  children!"   Martha  spoke  the  words, 
As  if  they  had  been  strange  from  a  strange  tongue: 
"Ah!    sir,  the  world  keeps  moving  while  we  wait; 
The  roses  grow  on  while  the  gardener  sleeps. 
Your  boy  and  girl  are  man  and  woman  now, 
Both  married!    How  you  start!    Yes,  married  well! 
You've  not  forgotten  Lucius  Coventry; 
Well,  Robert  married  Lucius'  daughter,  Grace, 
And  little  Elsa,  his  son,  Lucius;    yes, 
Both  rich  and  happy!     They  are  not  yours  now." 
"The  babies  married? — Why!   when  last  I  held 
Their  pretty,  rosy  faces  to  my  breast, 
Robert  was  twelve,  and  little  Elsa  nine. 
Not  mine,  not  mine!     Ah!   they  will  love  me  still. 
Where  are  they,  Martha?     Let  me  go  to  them!  " 
"Don't  seek  them,  sir — don't  try  to  drag  them  down 
From  the  high,  sunny  places  where  they  sit; 
They're  rich  and  happy,  and  a  little  proud. 

75 


They  don't  remember  the  old  nurse  at  all, 

But  they  are  Edith's  children.      Do  you  know, 

I  sometimes  vex  my  brain  with  these  queer  things — 

How  little  there  is  of  the  human  soul, 

Apart  from  all  the  places,  times  and  things 

And  people  that  become  a  part  of  it? 

Don't  blame  the  little  ones  for  growing  proud; 

The  angels  would  grow  dim  and  change,  I  think, 

'Neath  forces  that  constrain  the  human  heart. 

I  love  the  children,  but  I  keep  away, 

And  if  you  love  them,  sir,  you'll  let  them  be." 

"Keep  from  my  babies — Edith's  babes  and  mine! — " 

"Ah!    maybe,  sir,  they'd  not  remember  you." 

Walter  clasped  both  his  hands  above  his  heart, 

As  if  an  arrow  pierced  it,  and  he  reeled: 

"D6  we  forget  the  loving  eyes  that  lean, 

Star-like  above  our  cradle — love  and  lean, 

Through  all  the  tender  dawn  of  infancy? 

Nay,  Martha,  they  will  know  and  love  me  still." 

"Ah!  sir,  you  do  not  know  them  as  I  do. 

Maybe  they  think  you're  dead." 

"Nay,  Martha,  nay, 

For  I  have  written  to  them  many  times. 
Dead  people  do  not  write,  or  else  I  think 
I  had  had  angel  letters  long  ago." 
And  Walter  would  have  smiled,  had  not  his  lips, 
Unpracticed  in  that  grace  for  ten  long  years, 
Almost  forgotten  the  sweet  way  of  it. 
"Dead  people  sometimes  come  to  life  again 
At  disagreeable  times  and  places,  sir." 
"Did  Aunt  Maria  teach  them  I  was  dead?" 

70 


"I  am  not  sure — I  think  so;    many  times 
I've  picked  the  pieces  of  your  letters  up, 
And  tossed  them  in  the  fire;    I  think,  mayhap, 
She  never  read  them  to  the  little  ones, 
Telling  them  you  were  dead,  for  she  was  wise, 
Was  Edith's  Aunt  Maria,  very  wise." 
Then  Walter  clasped  his  brow,  and  underneath, 
His  great  gray  eyes  burned  with  a  holy  wrath. 
"And  Edith,  Martha,  what  did  Edith  say?" 
"Always  the  good,  sir,  never  a  bitter  word. 
She  told  the  children  you  had  gone  away, 
That  some  day  you  were  coming  home  again; 
And  every  night  she  had  them  kneel  and  clasp 
Their  little  hands  like  folded  lily  buds, 
And  bow  their  heads  upon  them,  side  by  side, 
The  dark  and  bright  together,  praying  for  you." 
Then  Walter  murmured,  "I  have  come  again, 
And  I  will  find  my  pretty  boy  and  girl." 
"If  you  will  seek  them,  wait  a  little — wait — 
Tide  over  Christmas. " 

"Martha,  wherefore  wait? 
Have  I  not  waited  ten  long,  lonely  years? 
Why  suffer  this  heart-thirst  another  day? 
I'm  starving,  Martha,  for  a  crumb,  of  love." 
Then  Martha  laid  a  hand  on  either  arm, 
And  turned  him  gently  'round,  until  her  eyes 
Looked  into  his  steadfastly,  then  she  spoke: 
"A  merry  day  is  Christmas  to  the  rich; 
Don't  spoil  it  for  the  children."     Blinding  flash 
Of  swift,  white  lightning,  parting  back  the  night, 
An  instant,  and  revealing  heaven  and  earth, 

77 


Then  leaving  double  darkness!      Walter  drew 

His  hand  across  his  eyes  as  if  to  brush 

A  cobweb  'twixt  him  and  the  sunlight  hung: 

"My  pretty  boy  and  girl  disown  me? — ha! 

My  deepest  anguish  sounded  not  such  depths. 

But  if  they  know  not  why  I  went  away, 

Ah!  surely  they  will  welcome  me  with  smiles." 

Then  Martha  clutched  her  fingers  on  his  arm, 

And  the  large   tears   splashed   down   from  cheek  to 

breast: 

"Oh!   there's  the  trouble,  sir,  they  know  it  all. 
I  meant  to  spare  you,  but  you  drove  me  to  it. 
The  morning  papers  blazoned  your  release, 
Telling  your  story  over,  coloring  it, 
So  that  the  newsboys  had  a  prosperous  day." 
Then  Walter  clasped  his  brow  between  his  hands, 
And  turning,  looked  in  the  great  window-pane. 
He  saw  the  close  gray  hair  about  the  face, 
All  seamed  and  counter-seamed,  the  stooping  form, 
And  then  the  vision  faded,  and  he  saw 
A  pretty  room  all  decked  with  Christmas  wreaths 
And  Christmas  tokens,  and  a  lithe  young  man 
With  richly  curling  locks,  a  happy  smile 
Upon  his  grave  young  mouth,  and  at  his  side 
A  slender  woman  crowned  with  golden  hair, 
Two  pretty  romping  children  at  their  feet, 
The  tender  look  and  smile,  the  clasp  and  kiss, 
The  clear,  unclouded  lovelight  all  the  day. 
The  thunder  of  the  multitude  outside 
Melted  into  the  distance,  and  his  ears 
Were  filled  with  ringing  laughter  and  sweet  speech — 

78 


A  human  music  sweeter  to  man's  ears 

Than  angel  wings  beat  out  of  silver  lutes. 

There  came  a  gentle  pressure  on  his  arm: 

"A  crowd  is  gathering,  sir,  let  us  move  on, 

For  crowds  are  not  nice  things  for  such  as  us; 

Shall  you  not  want  some  further  talk  with  me?" 

"I  want  my  boy  and  girl!"  he  fiercely  said. 

"Homeless  and  wifeless,  childless,  nameless!    God! 

Has  my  sin  called  for  so  great  punishment?" 

He  covered  up  his  eyes,  and  sobbed  aloud, 

While  Martha  drew  him  gently  down  the  street, 

Striving  to  speak  some  homely  words  of  cheer: 

"Try  to  forget  the  anguish  of  the  past, 

God's  bitter  medicine  of  pain;  believe 

The  future  yet  has  sweet  wine  stored  for  you." 

"Nay,  Martha,  nay,  a  whole  eternity 

Of  shadowless  delight  can  never  make 

Amends  for  such  an  hour  of  agony." 

S,he  begged  that  he  would  come  and  dine  with  her: 

"I  have  six  stalwart,  rosy  sons,"  she  said, 

"So  that  I  need  not  toil  for  strangers  now. 

I  shall  be  proud  to  have  you  take  their 'hands. 

Come  dine  with  us — we  shall  be  honored,  sir, 

If  you  will  only  eat  a  little  crust 

From  off  our  table."     Walter  shook  his  head. 

To  joyless  hearts  the  sight  of  others'  joy 

Makes  the  heart  faint,  and  sorrow  doubly  sad, 

And  food  is  hard  to  swallow  with  tears  for  wine. 

"Nay,  Martha,  nay,  the  sweetest  food  would  choke; 

I'll  go  and  think.     Farewell,  dear,  loving  soul!" 


79 


So  Walter  sought  out  an  obscure  hotel, 

And  registered  his  name,  And  Company. 

"A  queer  name!  "  said  the  clerk,  and  idly  changed 

The  And  to  Andrew:      "Holland,  sir,  or  Swede?" 

"Saxon!"  the  stranger  muttered,  as  he  caught 

The  key  tossed  to  him,  on  his  open  palm. 

All  night  he  paced  his  chamber  up  and  down, 

Fanning  a  flickering  purpose  in  his  heart, 

And  when  the  white  face  of  the  morning  looked 

Smiling,  in  through  the  dingy  window-pane, 

He  turned  to  greet  it,  saying,  "I  am  resolved." 

As  the  sad  sunshine  slipped  along  the  world, 
Melting  its  dreams, — for  to  the  eyes  that  weep, 
The  sunshine  seemeth  sadder  than  the  night, — 
He  trod  the  long  streets  hushed  in  Christmas  peace. 
Shone  never  so  radiantly  a  Christmas  sun, 
But  Walter's  heart  was  full  of  night  and  storm; 
Pealed  Christmas  laughter  never  so  merrily, 
But  Walter  had  forgotten  the  way  to  smile. 
Swift,  happy  feet  went  hurrying  to  and  fro 
On  missions  glad — he  had  a  mission  too — 
To  find  his  children,  and  to  hear  his  doom. 

It  was  a  young  man  set  the  door  ajar; 
Dark,  richly-curling  locks,  blue,  splendid  eyes 
Under  a  broad,  white  brow,  and  a  grave  mouth, 
With  just  a  mirthful  quiver  at  its  red  curves; 
So  like  the  father  in  his  happy  youth, 
With  glimpses  of  the  mother  here  and  there. 
So  handsome  and  so  manly,  Walter  gazed, 

80 


Thrilled  with  a  sudden  ecstasy — his  boy, 
Robert  Earle  Gray,  yes,  Edith's  son  and  his! 
So  long  he  gazed,  that  over  the  bright  face, 
A  black  suspicion  darkened  like  a  cloud. 
He  closed  the  door  behind  him  while  he  spoke: 
"What  will  you  have,  sir?   I  am  Robert  Gray." 
"I  knew  your  father,   Robert,  long  ago," 
Came  back  the  hollow  answer  from  white  lips, 
Like  a  deep  murmur  from  an  ocean  cave. 
"I  thought  perhaps  that  you  would  like  to  know — " 
"Stop  there!"  he  cried  in  anger,  "stop  just  there! 
You've  read  the  shameful  story,  and  you've  come 
For  money,  blackmail — speak,  is  it  not  so?" 
But  Walter  spoke  not,  dumb  from  lips  to  heart. 
Then  Robert  leaned  back,  and  the  lightnings  played 
From  his  blue,  splendid  eyes,  while  he  spoke  on, 
As  if  none  other  listened  but  himself: 
"I  have  no  love,  no,  not  a  spark  for  him! 
And  wherefore  should  I  have  for  such  a  wretch? 
I  have  been  taught  to  think  that  he  was  dead, 
Dead  with  the  love  and  honor  of  men's  hearts 
Thick  on  his  grave  as  white  dew  from  the  st'ars. 
I  have  believed  a  lie,  it  seems.      By  heaven!" 
He  straightened,  whitening  with  a  sudden  wrath: 
'"Twere  better  for  us  all  if  he  were  dead! 
Tell  me  by  what  right,  human  or  divine, 
He  comes,  a  skeleton  of  buried  shame, 
To  stalk  across  the  sunshine  of  my  life? 
Now  if  you  know  him,  or  can  find  him  out, 
Go  ask  of  him  that  question!"     Walter  turned, 
Still  answering  nothing,  dumb  from  heart  to  lips, 

81 


The  cruel  word-wounds  bleeding  inwardly. 

Robert  stretched  forth  his  hand  imperiously: 

"You  have  not  said  what  brought  you  hither!  Speak! " 

Should  Walter  speak?     Were  it  not  kinder  now, 

Knowing  his  son's  heart  toward  him,  who  had  come, 

A  shadow  'twixt  him  and  the  shining  sun, 

To,  shadow-like,  in  silence,  glide  away? 

But,  faint  with  wild  heart-hunger,  Walter  spoke, 

With  all  the  father  yearning  from  his  eyes: 

"Were  /  your  father — "     Robert  caught  the  words 

Up  from  his  burning  lips  like  sparks  of  fire, 

That  kindled  a  fresh  anger  in  his  breast: 

"Were  you  my  father,  you  would  comprehend 

How  every  breath  you  draw  creates  a  mist 

To  darken,  soon  or  late,  into  a  cloud 

Upon  the  fair  horizon  of  my  life; 

And  if  you  loved  me,  you  would  go  away, 

Far,  far  away  into  some  lonely  land, 

Where  you  could  hide  forever  your  self  and  name, 

Until — until  you  died."    The  beauteous  face, 

Unrippled  by  a  sweet  emotion,  bent 

Like  scornful  marble.     Walter  clinched  his   hands, 

And  tottering  like  a  half-felled  pine,  he  cried, 

"I  am  your  father!" 

"Aye,  I  thought  as  much!" 

Robert  made  answer,  while  his  youthful  cheek 
Whitened  with  fury,  and  his  red  lips  twitched. 
Forth  Walter  stretched  a  faltering  hand,  and  cried, 
"Robert,  my  boy,  am  I  so  vile  a  wretch 
You  will  not  take  my  hand  in  parting,  once?" 
But  Robert  heeded  not  the  tremulous  hand: 

82 


"''Make  no  appeals  to  me — have  I  not  said 

I  love  you  not;  your  life  is  but  a  threat, 

A  muttering  cloud  upon  my  sunny  heaven?" 

Then  Walter  murmured,  "Robert,  I  will  be 

A  kind  and  loving  father.     You  are  right; 

I  might  have  known,  and  yet  I  thought,  I  thought — 

No  matter  what  I  thought."     And  Walter  turned, 

Blinded  with  tears  of  fire,  and  groped  his  way, 

Half  creeping,  down  the  gleaming  marble  steps. 

'Twere   well    if    sound,  like  sight,  were  drowned  in 

tears, 

For  Robert,  with  a  merry,  mocking  laugh, 
Made  answer  to  a  sweet  voice  at  the  door, 
"Only  a  Christmas  beggar,  Gracie!"     Oh! 
That  pricked  the  fainting  manhood  in  his  breast. 
Hope  after  hope  had,  like  a  meteor,  burst, 
And  fallen  in  dull  gray  ashes,  but  one  star 
Still  through  the  deepening  darkness  softly  burned — 
His  pretty,  prattling  Elsa,  his  sweet  bird, 
Who  wept  aloud  for  pity  when  she  saw 
A  cripple  struggling  on  his  hands  and  knees 
Bravely  across  the  slippery,  crowded  street. 
Surely  the  little  girl  had  kept  for  him, 
Burning  in  some  dim  chamber  of  her  heart, 
A  little  lamp  of  love  all  pure  and  bright, 
Filled  last  time  from  a  mother's  dying  lips, 
Trimmed  by  the  angel  hand  of  memory. 
Ah,  little  girl!    she  is  a  woman  now, 
Another  man  to  love,  but  what  of  that? 
A  noble  heart  is  never  wholly  filled; 
Each  love  enlarges  it  to  hold  new  love, 

83 


And  deepens  old  affections;  as  the  stream 

Fed  by  new  streams,  must  widen  out  its  shores, 

And  deepen  its  old  channel. 

"Not  at  home!" 

The  servant  sharply  answered  at  the  door. 
"Away  so  early,  and  on  Christmas  morn?" 
"Well,  sir,  I  only  meant  she  can't  be  seen." 
If  she  but  knew  the  suppliant  at  her  door, 
Would  she  not  fly  on  swift  feet  winged  with  joy, 
With  bursts  of  ringing  laughter  and  sweet  speech? 
"Tell  her,"  he  faltered,  "that  an  old-time  friend, 
Who  knew  the  family  many  )^ears  ago, 
Is  at  the  door,  and  prays  to  speak  with  her." 
The  maid  withdrew  with  slow,  reluctant  steps, 
And  Walter  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  saw 
A  golden  head  lean  from  the  drifted  lace, 
That  veiled  the  polished  window  near  at  hand, 
As  from  the  white  rim  of  a  filmy  cloud, 
A  star  half  slips.     Blue,  curious  eyes  peered  out. 
This  second  Edith  was  so  like  the  first, 
The  first  time  she  had  dawned  upon  his  sight, 
Ripe,  rosy  cheeks,  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair, 
He  scarce  refrained  from  crashing  through  the  pane. 
The  bright  star  disappeared  behind  its  cloud; 
Then  there  were  footsteps,  softly-closing  doors, 
And  earnest  whisperings,  and  through  it  all, 
The  even  music  of  a  manly  voice, 
And  presently  the  maid,  returning,  spoke: 
"My  mistress  says  she  cannot  speak  with  you, 
And  bids  you  state  your  business."     Did  she  feel 
A  shadow  hovering  near  on  that  bright  morn? 

84 


Was  she  in  league  with  that  hard,  bitter  world? 
Where  was  the  winsome,  loving,  laughing  child, 
So  tender  that  she  wept  to  wound  a  worm? 
A  storm  of  grief  and  anger  swept  aside 
All  the  restraints  of  reason  and  of  will: 
"Tell  her  her  father  stands  without  the  door, 
And  asks  to  speak  with  her."     There  came  a  sound 
Of  footfalls  light  as  dropping  autumn  fruit, 
Of  rustling  robes  like  wind  blown  autumn  leaves, 
And  as  a  scared  bird  from  the  thicket  flies, 
Another  listener,  from  behind  the  door, 
Glided  along  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs; 
And  from  above  dropped  down  a  sweet    bird  voice, 
As  sweet  and  pure  as  dewy  morning  notes 
By  happy,  soaring  linnet  careless  dropped, 
From  vortices  of  rosy  mist  and  cloud, 
Through  golden  rhythms  of  light  upon  the  world. 
"Susie,"  it  twittered,  "send  that  man  away; 
Tell  him  I  have  no  father."     Walter  leaned 
Forward,  and  sent  a  strong  and  shuddering  cry 
Ringing  among  the  rosy,  perfumed  halls: 
"Elsa,  my  bird,  come  down,  come  down  to  me; 
For  the  old  tyrant  hunter  waits  for  you!" 
That  was  the  cry  that  wooed  her  baby  feet 
To  the  mad  evening  frolic;  now  it  rang, 
All  sharp  and  shivering,  with  the  startling  sound 
Of  something  costly  breaking.     A  heart  broke. 
Then  fell  the  hush  of  deep  dismay  which  comes 
After  the  crash  of  ruin,  then  a  moan, 
The  tender  sound  of  weeping  and  low  sobs, 
With  whispered  pleadings — she  is  coming;  joy! 

85 


The  child  is  coming!  Walter  stretched  his  arms. 

Oh!   now  is  recompense!     Hark! — a  man's  voice, 

Stern  and  commanding:      "Susie,   close  the  door; 

The  fellow's  crazy;  have  John  drive  him  off!" 

And  Susie  whispered  with  an  honest  tear- 

Of  pity  shining  on  her  rosy  cheek, 

"Her  husband!"   as  she  softly  closed  the  door. 

Then  Walter's  reason  faltered,  and  his  brain 

Was  full  of  flitting  shapes  and  jangling  sounds, — 

The  silver  crash  of  waters  on  the  shore, 

The  jostling,  staring  multitude,  the  glare 

Of  gorgeous  windows,  and  the  idle  jest 

And  laughter  of  gay  people,  and  the  whirl 

Of  pleasure's  giddy  wheels,  and  miles  and  miles 

Of  crowded  streets,  and  then  long,  lonely  ways, 

With  scattered  houses  and  bare,  bloomless  fields, 

And  only  one  thought  beating  in  his  brain — 

To  press  his  lips  to  Edith's  grave,  and  die. 

And  when  at  last  the  gleaming  granite  shaft, 
On  which  was  carved  the  name  of  Robert  Earle, 
And  on  the  right,  the  name  of  Edith  Earle, 
And  on  the  left,  the  name  of  Edith  Gray, 
Flashed  coldly  on  his  burning  sight,  there  lay 
A  shining  sunset  cloud  across  the  west, 
Stretched  like  a  splendid  angel  at  full  length, 
Within  the  dusky  splendor  of  whose  smile 
Glistened  the  white 'spires  of  the  city  of  sleep. 
Then  Walter,  falling  prone  on  Edith's  grave, 
Lay  motionless,  except  for  the  faint  breath 
That  stirred  his  pale  lips,  while  the  noiseless  hours 

86 


Trod  softly  through  the  darkness,  till  at    last, 
The  beautiful,  slow-footed  dawn  approached. 
The  dimming  moon  like  a  strained  eyeball  stared, 
Until  a  light  cloud,  sliding  down  the  sky, 
Like  a  white  eyelid  folded  over  it. 
Then  ached  his  heart  with  a  returning  sense 
Of  agony,  a  conscious  bruise  and  strain, 
As  if  it  had  been  crushed  'neath  sorrow's  heel, 
Until  too  numb  to  feel  its  own  great  hurt. 
He  pressed  his  pale  lips  close  to  the  cold  grave, 
And  cried,  with  a  loud,  agonizing  cry, 
"Edith!"  and  once  more — "Edith!"   and  again — 
"Edith!"  beseechingly,  as  if  he  thought 
The  mighty  anguish  of  the  voice  of  love, 
Entreating  through  the  silence  of  the  grave, 
Could  strike  through  even  the  dreamless  ear  of  death. 
Only  the  faint  stir  of  the  faded  grass 
Made  gentle  answer,  and  a  withered  leaf 
Came  quivering  down  beside  him  on  the  grave. 
Ungenerous  nature  left  earth's  naked  limbs 
Without  their  timely  robe  of  snowy  grace. 
There  was  a  crystal  silence  everywhere, 
Save  when  a  young  wind,  like  a  viewless  bird, 
With  frosty  pinions  winging  through  the  night, 
Would  light  among  the  branches,  panting  there, 
Shaking  the  skeletons  of  the  dead  leaves 
That  clung  about  the  branches.     Walter  rose, 
Seeing  far  off  and  dim  a  radiant  thought, 
Hovering  upon  the  brain's  edge  distantly, 
Too  far  and  dim  to  trace  its  glorious  shape, 
Advancing  and  retreating  like  a  star. 

87 


Straining  his  gaze  lest  it  should  slip  from  view, 

He  wandered  blindly  on  and  on,  until 

He  heard  the  silver  lapping  of  the  lake 

Close  by  his  feet.     And  far  off  in  the  south, 

A    cloud   of    thick   smoke    sprinkled    through   with 

lights, 

Showed  where  the  city,  in  unquiet    sleep, 
Lay  breathing  heavily  in  feverish  dreams, 
And  over  it  the  still,  star-trodden  skies. 
Some  great  thoughts  seem  to  burst  into  the  brain 
Full-orbed,  like  heaven's  new  stars,  but  only  seem; 
For  all  a  man  hath  ever  done  or  been, 
His  slightest  thought,  emotion,  word  or  deed, 
All  works  of  God,  of  angels,  or  of  men, 
The  whole  weight  of  the  past  eternity, 
Bears  down  upon  the  moment  as  it  comes, 
Shaping  resistlessly  its  thought  and  deed. 
Walter  looked  out  upon  the  darkling  lake, 
Bounded  by  pale  fog  flecked  with  glimmering  lights, 
As  strong  and  swift  and  sleepless,  the  great  boats 
Backward  and  forward  flew  like  carrier  birds, 
With  olive  twigs  of  commerce  in  their  beaks, 
And  thought  some  strange  new  thoughts  of  life  and 

things: 

"It  must  be  happiness  is  good  for  man; 
His  heart,  hot-lipped,  thirsts  so  for  one  deep  draught 
Of  life's  joy,  that,  like  eucharistic  wine, 
An  angel  seems  to  pass  from  lip  to  lip, 
That  each  may  simply  touch  the  rosy  rim, 
And  keep  the  taste  to  smile  by  in  his  dreams. 
No  fear  the  soul  will  drink  so  de.ep  of  bliss 

88 


That  it  will  sink  in  languor  and  soft  dreams, 
Since  life  is  life,  and  death  is  always  death, 
And  'twixt  these  the  unthinking  elements, 
Blind    lightnings    and    deaf    thunders,    thoughtless 

winds, 

Unfeeling  waters  and  dumb  earthquake  shocks, 
Play  with  man's  delicate  senses  and  fair  limbs, 
As  with  insentient  rocks  and  trees  and  flowers. 
Say  not  that  trouble  falleth  a    white  flame, 
From  hands  divine,  all-tender  and  all-wise, 
To  burn    souls    white!    We're  done  with    that  dead 

creed, 
Since    many    hearts    are    crisped    and    scarred    and 

scathed, 
Where  one  walks  glistening,  unsinged    through  the 

flames. 

I  think  God  smiles  upon  our  human  smiles, 
And  man  brews  most  of  his  own  bitterness, 
From  harvests  of  his  own  heart's  selfishness. 
The  century's  cry  is  not  from  man  to  God 
For  the  divine  compassion  and  reprieve, 
But  from  the  outraged  heart  of  man  to  man, 
For  simple  justice.      Thou,  God,  make  us  wise 
Enough  to  know  the  happiness  of  each 
Is  measured  by  the  happiness  of  all, 
As  the  most  kingly  sun  that  ever  swayed 
The  fairest  constellation  in  the  heavens, 
Moves  only  to  the  music  of  all  worlds, 
Vibrating  to  the  touch  of  unseen  stars. 
Since  the  first  time  man  gazed  on  sun  and  cloud, 
Breathed    breath    pf    flowers,   and  listened    to    low 

winds,  89 


And  himself  made  the  music  of  sweet  speech, 

And  sinned  and  loved  and  labored  and  learned  tears, 

His  heart  has  whispered  to  him  prophetwise: 

'  'Tis  thou  that  sittest  at  the  forge  of  time, 

With  iron  music  and  with  flakes  of  fire, 

Beating  thine  own  fate  from  the  glowing  years; 

Thou  forgest  thine  own  fetters  for  thy  feet.' 

So  with  wild  dreams  and  blood  and  tears  and  fire, 

With  thrones  and  anarchy  and  social  schisms, 

In  hope  and  fear  and  anguish,  he  has  striven 

To  build  a  city,  whose  strong,  glistening  walls 

Shall  make  it  ever  inaccessible 

To  human  selfishness,  the  one  great  foe 

Of  human  happiness;  and  when  one  falls, 

He  searches  for  another,  loftier  site. 

So,  through  the  gloom  of  ages  he  has  gone 

Groping  his  way  from  shining  height  to  height, 

Like  some  blind  angel  lost  in  ether  darks, 

Feeling  his  doubtful  way  from  star  to  star, 

Knowing  the  good,  but  knowing  not  the  way 

To  best  achieve  it." 

Walter  raised  his  eyes, 

And  lo,  heaven  shone  like  a  great  amethyst 
On  God's  forefinger.      "Help    me,  God,"  he  prayed, 
"To  send  some  golden  sunbeam  down  the  dark, 
One  shaft  of  sunlight  quivering  through  the  night 
Of  the  storm-threatened  future;  let  me  break 
Some  pathway  open,  that  shall  one  day  lead 
Down  to  the  feet  of  morning  through  all  tears, 
And  I  shall  live,  and  have  a  joy  in  life, 
The  joy  that  comes  through  doing  of  a  thing 

90 


That's  noble  in  the  teeth  of  human  scorn." 
When  up  the  sun  rose  like  a  lake  of  fire 
Out  of  a  lake  of  water,  Walter  stretched 
His  hands  toward  Edith's  grave,  and  .cried,  "Fare 
well! 

Farewell,  beloved!      I  take  a  second  bride, 
And  name  and  being  forevermore  are  merged 
In  this,  my  second  love — Humanity." 

[NOTE:  I  am  indebted  to  Mr.  Collins  Shackelford's  sketch  in  an  issue  of 
the  Evening  News  in  December,  1889,  for  some  of  the  incidents  in  Part  IV  of 
this  book. — THE  AUTHOR.] 


91 


PART  I 
FREEDOM 

It  lay,  that  splendid  city  by  the  lake, 
'Neath  all  the  summer  splendor  of  blue  skies — 
A  blue  as  fresh  and  stainless  and  urisoiled 
As  if  a  band  of  cherubs  sent  from  heaven, 
Had  washed  it  up  with  white  clouds  dipped  in  dew. 
Even  where  the  city's  heart  beat  loud  and  fast 
With  the  returning  pulses  of  the  day, 
The  heavy  smoke,  upbreathed  from  panting  lungs 
Of  myriad  engines,  seemed  to  shrink  abash'ed 
From  the  pure  heaven,  as  a  polluted  soul 
Shrinks  back  in  awe  from  spotless  innocence. 
The  river  like  a  headless  giant  lay — 
Headless,  but  heaving  still  with  torpid  life. 
Along  the  languid  arms  and  sluggish  sides, 
Full  in  the  monstrous  armpits  ceaseless  swarmed 
The  ever-building,  building  human  ants. 
Not  long  since  the  first  big,  white-winged  canoe 
Came  flying  o'er  the  blue,  astonished  lake, 
And  lo,  the  liquid  music  which  rude  oars 
Were  beating  out  of  tuneful  wave-harps,  ceased, 
And  the  wild  songs  of  savage  love  and  hate 
Died  in  sad  echoes  on  the  lonely  shore. 
Then  faded  from  the  waters  the  bright  dream 
Of  glancing  bark-canoes  and  waving  oars, 
And  scarlet-shirted  oarsmen,  to  and  fro 
Waving  in  time  to  song  and  stroke  of  oar. 

95 


Not  long  since,  like  a  beauteous  thing  of  life, 

With  neither  beating  oars  nor  waving  wings, 

With  throbbing  heart  and  .breath,  almost  a  brain, 

Defying  will  of  winds  and  waves'  caprice, 

Came  walking  o'er  the  waves  majestically, 

The  conquering  steamer  in  whose  white  wake  sprang, 

Like  Aphrodite  radiant  from  the  foam, 

The  spirit  of  the  new  age,  and  behold, 

Where  the  wild  onion  waved  upon  the  shores 

Of  the  "Chicaugou, "  flowing  sluggishly, 

Stretch  miles  and  miles  of  dockage,  and  no  more 

The  echo  of  a  savage  melody 

Finds  room  'mid  roar  of  traffic  night  and  day. 

And  now  the  languid  river,  like  the  bond 

Which  held  the  twins  of  Siam,  firmly  binds 

In  one  the  threefold  city — triple  birth 

Of  the  young  century,  that,  now  grown  gray, 

Stands  on  its  radiant  evening's  golden  edge, 

Leaning  upon  its  staff,  and  with  a  smile, 

Half  triumph,  half  mysterious  prophecy, 

Looks  eastward  where  the  sweet,  prophetic  glow 

Of  the  new  dawning  century  appears, 

Faint  flushing  up  the  heavens. 

So  it  lay 

Anointed  with  the  sunrise,  like  a  queen, 
That  splendid  city  by  the  lake,  whose  waves 
Were  in  their  gentlest  mood,  and  softly  purred 
Against  the  quiet  shore,  while  eastward  far, 
It  dimpled  faintly,  like  the  cheek  of  one 
Who  sleeps  and  dreams,  and  all  unconscious  smiles. 
As  shoreward  surges  an  incoming  tide, 

96 


The  refluent  sea  of  life  rolled  cityward, 
Like  heart-blood  swift  returning  on  the  heart, 
And  the  long  streets  like  shuddering  arteries  beat. 
Now  high  in  heaven  pushed  the  golden  sun, 
And  quiet  fell  upon  the  wide,  fair  streets, 
Where  smiled  serene  and  stately  in  the  sun, 
With  mutual  congratulations,  each 
Upon  the  other,  calm,  complacent  smiles, 
The  rich  men's  dwellings.     Oh!   the  hearts  of  men 
Mix  with  the  city's  brick  and  mortar.     Aye, 
And  cry  out  of  the  pavements  and  the  walls, 
The  things  men  strive  to  strangle  out  of  sound. 

This  morning  walked  two  children  hand  in  hand, 

Beside  the  gray  sea  wall,  against  which  laughed 

The  happy  little  waves  like  gleeful  babes, 

And  after  them  a  woman  meanly  clad, 

But  with  a  gentle  grace,  meek,  mournful  eyes, 

Gently  beseeching,  unresentful,  yet 

Mutely  reproachful,  like  dumb  creatures' -eyes; 

A  mouth  'round  which  a  subtle  sweetness  lurked, 

So  sweet  that  all  life's    bitterness   had  failed 

To  make  it  bitter.     Any  one  had  said, 

"The  mother  of  both  children,  and  the  boy 

Has  seen  eight  summers,  and  his  sister,  ten." 

Because  the  boy  was  small  and  slightly  built, 

With  cheeks  like  lilies,  bloomless,  and  with  eyes 

Like  timid  violets,  and  a  wide,  white  brow 

With   tremulous   blue  veins    crossed,  and   clinging 

*     waves 

Of  brown  hair  flowing  'round  it;  while  the  girl 

97 


Betrayed  in  rounded  limbs  and  ruddy  cheeks, 
In  restless,  raven  curls  and  dark  eyes'  gleam, 
How  leaped  the  rosy  tides  of  strong,  sweet  life, 
Unchecked  by  pain  or  passion,  through  glad  veins. 
Twice  gentle  were  her  gentle  words  and  ways, 
As  of  an  elder  sister  unto  him, 
But  both  were  ten  in  that  rare  month  of  June, 
>Vnd  only  Magia  was  the  child  of  her 
Who  seemed  a  kindly  mother  unto  both, 
bweet  Magia,  who,  like  some  flowers  that  bloom, 
Though  starved  of  dew  and  sunlight  and  soft  showers, 
Had  kept  her  sweet  life  without  blast  or  blight, 
Defiant  of  all  gloom  and  stagnant  air. 

Close  where  the  river,  reeking  in  its  slime, 
Crawls  green  and  venom-breathing,  like  a  snake, 
Where  virtue,  life  and  love,  and  rent  are  low, 
Lived  Magia  with  her  mother  in  a  room 
Bare  of  all  luxury  except  the  flow 
Of  bright,  impartial  sunlight,  all  untaxed, 
Upon  the  spotless  floor,  and  on  a  shelf 
A  few  worn  volumes.     Here  had  Magia  lived 
A  twelvemonth  with  her  mother,  whose  white  face 
Was  set  with  the  strange  patience  of  mute  vows 
Against  the  social  order  that  compelled 
Her  to  its  cold  embrace  and  forced  her  still 
To  please  its  idle  humors,  though  divorced 
Forever  from  it  by  its  cruelty. 
That  mother  had  a  secret  in  her  eyes, 
And  kept  her  eyelids  drooped  to   shut  it  in. 
In  vain  the  frowsy  women  of  the  house 

08 


Had  leered  and  jeered  upon  her,  calling  out 
That  the  fine  lady  better  get  herself 
A  brown-stone  front  upon  the  avenue, 
And  live  with  the  fine  people  like  herself, 
Too  good  to  speak  to  poor  folk;    but  she  kept 
Upon  her  quiet  way,  and  paid  no  heed 
To  taunts  of  misery,  or  cold  neglect 
Of  wealth  and  happiness,  asked  naught,  gave  naught, 
Loved  nothing  but  the  little  loving  thing, 
The  sweet  child  Magia,  before  her  eyes 
Like  a  live  picture  of  her  fair,  dead  self. 
Nor  ever  Magia  played  upon  the  street 
With  the  thick  swarms  of  children  that  poured  out 
From  hive-like  tenements,  and  cursed  and  quarreled, 
Aping  the  older  ones  in  perfect  way, 
But  always  dressed  in  bright  and  dainty  clothes, 
She  played  alone  about  the  barren  room. 
No  toys  had  little  Magia  to  beguile 
The  long,  long  hours  of  childhood,  for  so  far 
The  mother's  heart  was  swept  from  that  bright  isle 
Of  fairy  groves  and  grottoes  and  white  rills, 
By  life's  wild  tempest,  that  she  had  forgot 
The  pretty,  foolish  fancies  of  a  child. 
But  Magia  needed  nothing,  for  she  watched 
The  white  steam  clouds  upfloating,  and  she   played 
With  gleaming  suds,  that  from  her  mother's  hands 
Fell  off  like  fairy  snow  in  some  rare  clime 
Produced  by  warm  south  wind  and  summer  sun, 
Or  tried  to  break  the  golden  lines  of  dust 
Thridding  the  rays  of  sunlight,  or  else  played 
At  gathering  up  the  sunbeams  from  the  floor, 

99 


Or  laughed  to  see  the  raindrops  leap  and  dance 

Upon  the  window  sill,  or  even  sometimes 

Threw  back  her  head  and  clasped  her  little  hands, 

And  burst  in  peals  of  laughter  long  and  sweet. 

Whereat  her  mother  faintly  smiled  and  said, 

"What  pleases  you,  my  Magia?"  and  the  child, 

In  pauses  of  the  music,  out  of  breath, 

Made  answer,  "There  is  something  in  me  laughs." 

It  was  the  ecstasy  of  perfect  life, 

That  like  an  angel  leaped  and  clapped  its  wings 

With  sounds  of  rhythmic  sweetness  in  the  soul, 

And  silver  bursts  of  laughter  from  the  lips 

That  rippled  unrestrainedly. 

Never  yet 

Had  Magia  played  with  children,  or  exchanged 
The  pretty  speech  of  childhood  with  a  child. 
But  in  the  ceaseless  flitting  to  and  fro 
Of  souls  from  tenement  to  tenement, 
Amid  the  toiling  populace,  like  birds 
That  nest  but  for  a  season,  in  the  spring 
There  came  a  noisy  pair  and  took  the  room 
Dingy  and  dismal  at  the  long  hall's  end. 
The  pair  had  one  pale  child,  a  boy  who  grew 
Too  slowly  and  not  strong  or    straight.      Perchance 
The  mother,  in  a  drunken  stupor,  dropped 
The  babe  and  jarred  life's  delicate  machine 
Out  of  its  fine  adjustment,  after  which 
The  wheels  of  life  ran  painfully,  and  jarred 
Sometimes  on  one  another.     Oftentimes, 
Through  thin  partitions  came  discordant  sounds 
Of  drunken  quarrels  and  scuffling,  flying  curse 

100 


And  flying  missile,  hideous  laughter  blent 
With  the  low,  piteous  sobbing  of  a  child. 

One  day  when  little  Magia  played  alone 
Within  the  soft  May  sunshine  on  the  floor, 
The  din  of  blows  and  curses  grew  so  fierce, 
She  gently  set  the  door  ajar  and  stood 
Peering  along  the  dim  hall.     Suddenly 
The  door  flew  wide,  and  with  a  piteous  cry, 
That  like  the  frightened  bleat  of  a  lost  lamb 
On  which  the  wolf  has  pounced  with  savage  snarl, 
Rang  sharply  down  the  passage,  the  pale  child 
Was  flung  out  like  a  heap  of  rubbish,  full 
Against  a  ragged  corner  of  the  wall, 
Which  marked  the  white  brow  with  a  crimson  gash. 
Then  little  Magia's  heart  beat  loud  and  fast, 
Swelling  with  an  emotion  strange  and  new, 
Like  the  inrush  of  waters  warm  and  sweet 
From  newly  opened  fountains.      'Twas  not  joy 
Nay,  nor  yet  sorrow,  but  betwixt  these  two, 
Tender  and  warm  and  sweet  and  undefined, 
Like  mist  'twixt  clouds  and  sunshine  a  May  morn — 
Divinest  pity.     Swift  as  summer  breeze 
Through  grassy  lane,  fled  Magia  down  the  hall, 
And  flung  her  dimpled  arms  around  the  boy. 
As  if  an  angel,  stooping  to  her  ear, 
Whispered  the  heavenly  prompting,  Magia  cried, 
"Come,  little  brother,  come  and  live  with  me. 
You  shall  play  with  my  sunbeams,  and  shall  have 
The  half  of  all  my  good  things."     Then  she  drew 
Him  unresisting  through  the  open  door 

101 


Into  the  soft  May  sunshine,  and  she  told 
Him  all  the  bright  things  in  her  little  life — 
Her  sunshine  and  her  snow-flakes  and  her  rain, 
And  how  upon  one  day  in  all  the  week, 
If  nature  lent  one  bright  in  all  the  seven, 
Her  mother  took  her  to  the  cool,  green  park, 
And  told  her  wondrous  tales,  or  read  to  her 
Out  of  some  bcok.     He  might  go  with  them  now. 
So  Magia  prattled  till  the  pallid  mouth 
Began  to  curve  and  quiver  with  the  light 
Of  an  approaching  smile,  as  a  spring  flower, 
Chilled  by  the  night-wind,  trembles  with  the  glow 
Of  an  approaching  sunbeam.     Then  he  laughed, 
And  startled  by  the  music  hid  his  face; 
But  Magia  leaped  with  rapture  at  the  sound. 
Which  changed  at  once  the  simple  melody 
Of  her  own  childish  laughter  evermore 
To  double-toned,  deep  sweetness,  never  more 
The  single  note,  but  ever  the  complex  chord. 
She  tried  to  pull  the  fragile  hands  apart, 
That,  like  the  petals  of  a  folded  bud, 
Unwilling  to  be  parted,  tightly  clung, 
And  being  stronger,  forced  the  delicate  palms, 
And  gathered  up  her  lips  into  a  kiss. 
But  he  sat  unresponsive,  knowing  not 
Whatever  a  kiss  could  mean.     Then,   like  a  flash, 
An  angel  intuition,  a  warm  glow 
Of  the  May  sunshine  from  the  hills  of  heaven, 
It  broke  on  Magia's  soul,  the  strange  perhaps, 
That  when  the  angels  taught  this  little  soul 
The  alphabet  of  heaven  that  it  must  learn 

102 


To  fit  it  for  the  world,  they  had  forgot 

The  happy  angel  instinct  of  a  kiss. 

And  so  she  taught  him  what  it  seemed  to  her 

The  angels  had  forgotten — its  sweet  lore, 

Its  fashion  and  its  meaning.     As  he  heard, 

His  eyes  with  wisdom  and  with  wonder  grew, 

And  in  their  far  blue  depths  crept  up  a  light, 

A  shining  like  the  dawn  upon  the  lake, 

And  kindled  like  a  sunrise  in  the  soul. 

A  shadow  on  the  happy  sunlight  fell; 

A  discord  crossed  the  harmony  of  speech, 

And  Magia's  mother,  with  rebuking  words, 

Frowning  upon  the  strange  child,  bade  him    go. 

But  Magia  clung  about  her  mother's  neck 

With  passionate  pleadings,  while  the  stranger  hid 

His  frightened  white  face  in  the  crimson  folds 

Of  little  Magia's  skirt.     Meanwhile  she  told 

His  pitiful  story,  and  the  mother  bent, 

Uncovered  the  stained  brow,  and  gently  asked, 

"What  might  your  name  be?" 

"Manley!" 

"Manley  what?" 

"Manley  Marcellus."     "Stay,"  the  mother  said, 
"Stay  till  they  seek  you."     Lo,  a  woman's  shriek, 
Unto  a  two-edged  sharpness  terror-whet, 
Pierced  through  the  thin  walls  of  the  startled  house, 
And  for  a  fresh  sensation  famishing, 
Thither  the  people  flocked,  like  clamorous  birds 
About  a  carcass,  finding  what  they  craved — 
A  woman  reeking  in  her  own  warm  blood, 
And,  crouching  on  the  floor,  his  crazy  brain 

103 


Sobered  by  shock  of  his  own  violent  deed, 

The  man,  the  woman's  mate,  clutched  in  his  hand 

A  knife  red  with  the  same  blood.     After  that, 

The  inquest  and  the  trial,  and  one  day 

A  man  was  hung  for  murder,  late  in  June, 

Wife-murder.     All  was  done,  done    and    passed  by, 

Leaving  upon  the  restless  social  sea 

No  firmer  impress  than  a  stone  far  cast 

Upon  the  heaving  bosom  of  the  lake, 

And  no  one  sought  the  child,  or  paused  to  ask 

If  child  had  been. 

So  little  Manley  stayed, 

And  Magia's  heart  was  brimmed  with  new  delight, 
Believing  he  was  hers  to  keep  and  guard; 
Because  a  noble  nature,  being  twice  strong, 
And  yet  twice  tender,  joys  to  spend  itself 
In  loving  service  and  sweet  sacrifice, 
Yearns  to  be  leaned  upon,  and  to  uphold. 
"A  year  this  June  day,"  little  Magia  said, 
"Since  little  brother  came!"     The  mother  smiled 
And  answered,  "It  shall  be  a  holiday." 
And  so  the  children  played  among  the  trees 
Of  one  cool  gree.n  oasis  left  by  men 
In  the  great  city  desert  of  blank  stone. 
Often,  as  they  were  clambering  up  a  knoll 
Or  flight  of  steps,  she  reached  her  hand  to  him, — 
To  her  it  was  so  natural  to  help. 
They  sometimes  rested  by  the  mother's  knees 
And  listened  to  some  story  they  would  weave 
Into  their  own  bright  world.     So  when  they  heard 
The  old  Norse  legend — how  the  world  was  wrought 

104 


Out  of  a  mighty  giant's  frame — they  lay 

And  watched  the  white-cloud-brains  drift  lazily 

In  the  great    skull    that    formed   the   heaven's  blue. 

vault, 
And  guessed  what  lightning    thoughts  and   thunder 

dreams 

Were  hidden  in  their  white  folds;  wondered  too 
If  the  blue  lake  that  once  had  been  his  blood 
Still  quivered  with  his  pulse's  ebb  and  flow. 
So,  like  a  snow-flake  from  the  hills  of  time, 
Melted  that  June  day  quickly  out  of  sight. 

Now  as  the  golden  sun  was  falling  fast, 
And  they  were  drawing  figures  on  the  sand, 
A  flock  of  noisy  children,  whose  young  lips 
Were  deft  with  curses  as  with  sugar-plums, 
Thither  came  thronging  at  the  sunset  hour. 
A  splendid  mastiff,  like  a  tawny  lion, 
Bounded  among  them.     One  had  brought  a  stick, 
And  waving  it  on  high,  cried,  "Fetch  it,  Jack!" 
And  flung  it  far  as  his  young  arm  could  throw. 
Into  the  shining  water,  lo!  a  splash, 
And  a  dark  form  amid  the  white  caps  plunged, 
And  struck  out  like  a  swimmer  skilled  and  strong. 
A  breathless  silence  reigned  upon  the  shore, 
Unbroken  till  a  wild,  triumphant  shout 
Greeted  the  noble  swimmer  as  he  leaped 
All  dripping  from  the  foam,  with  stick  in  mouth, 
Shaking  his  shaggy  sides  till  showers  of  spray 
Scattered  the  laughing  children  right  and  left. 
Then  Manley,  with  his  blue  eyes  luminous, 

105 


His  little  heart  with  boyish  rapture  swelled, 

Clapped  his  small  hands  and  shouted  with   delight. 

A  boy  with  heavy  frame  and  shaggy  locks, 

With  dull,  unthinking  face  that  spoke  a  heart 

More  brute  than  human,    such  a  heart  as  finds 

No  pleasure  half  so  sweet  as  giving  pain, 

Pointed  his  finger  at  the  child  and  cried, 

"The  hunchback!  ha!  the  hunchback!"  Came  a  rush 

Of  scarlet  to  the  pale  face  from  the  heart, 

And  swift  returning  on  the  heart  again, 

A  twofold  whiteness  left  in  the  white  face. 

Her  dark  eyes  gathering  lightning  Magia  stood; 

Her  red  cheeks  gathering  crimson,  then  she  sprang 

Upon  the  cruel  boy  and  bore  him  down ; 

Her  dimpled  knee  upon  his  chest,  she  rained 

The  hot  blows  fast  and  fierce  about  his  head, 

The  rest,  delighted  by  the  novel  sport, 

Shouted  and  clapped  their    hands    and    cheered  her 

on, 

Jeering  their  fallen  comrade  lustily. 
I  think  she  would  have  killed  him,  but  a  cry, 
A  sweet,  pathetic,  passionate,  pleading  cry, 
Sounded  above  the  tumult,  "Magia!" 
Then  quickly  Magia  sprang  to  Manley's  side, 
And  with  their  arms  about  each  other  twined, - 
They  passed  from  sight  amid  the  waving  trees, 
Amid  the  loud  applause  and  cruel  taunt, 
"Whipped  by  a  girl!  "  hurled  at  the  fallen  foe. 
They  sat  themselves  upon  a  grassy  knoll 
And  Magia  raised  a  flushed  and  eager  face: 
"Say,  did  I  grieve  you,  brother,  was  I  wrong? 

100 


Speak  to  me,  little  brother,  was  I  wrong?" 
But  Manley  answered  nothing,  in  his  face 
The  solemn  revelation-light  of  pain, 
Revealer  of  mysterious  depths  of  life. 

Behold  the  soul  is  born  in  a  deep  sleep, 

A  calm  unconsciousness  of  life  and  time, 

But  Fate,  or  an  appointed  angel,  sets 

And  winds  up  the  alarm  which,  at  the  hour, 

Peals  sharp  and  shrill  across  the  brain.     The  soul 

Awakes,  starts  up,  and  knows  that  it  has  slept. 

Some  are  awakened  in  the  early  dawn, 

When  stars  are  faint,  and  morning  is  not  yet. 

They  rise  alone  amid  the  dim  and  chill 

And  hear  the  quiet  breathing  of  the  souls 

That  still  are  sleeping.      So  on  that  June  day 

The  soul  of  Manley  heard  its  rude  alarm, 

And  started  up  half  blind  with  light,  and  deaf 

With  strange  confusion,  like  one  suddenly, 

From  cold,  mute  space  swept  in  upon  the  sun. 

Seeing  the  revelation  in  his  face, 

But  understanding  nothing,  Magia  lay, 

Her  cheek  against  his  hand,  until  at  last 

The  mother  sought  and  found  them  lying  there, 

Like  a  fresh  rose  and  lily  on  the  grass. 

"We're  tired  playing,"  Magia  sweetly  said, 

Forestalling  questions,  and  they  rose  and  went. 


107 


PART  II 
SLAVERY 

It  was  the  hour  of  moonrise,  and  the  moon 
Lay  like  a  silver  island  of  the  blest, 
Without  a  ripple  on  its  peaceful  shores. 
Then  Magia  and  Manley  sat  and  spoke 
In  quiet  whispers,  while  the  mother  slept, 
Who  lay  half  stricken  by  a  dread  disease, 
As  if  death,  like  an  executioner, 
Striking  with  tremulous  hand  but  half  achieved 
His  fatal  task.      Near  by  the  children  sat, 
And  'round  them  fell  the  moonlight  soft  as  sleep, 
And  bright  as  down  dropped  from  an  angel's  breast. 
Said  Magia,  "Little  brother,  I  will  go, 
And  earn  our  bread  and  clothes,  for  I  am  strong." 
Then  Manley's  pale  cheek  flushed,  and  in  his  voice 
Was  the  soft  quivering  sound  of  unshed  tears: 
"Call  me  not  little  brother;    /  am  strong. 
I  will  go  with  you,  Magia,  and  work  too. 
I  will  not,  like  a  baby,  stay  at  home." 
As  if  their  soft  words  pierced  her  fragile  dream, 
The  sleeper  stirred,  and  stretched  her  one  live  hand, 
Clasping  the  children's  clasped  hands  fast  in  hers: 
"Ah,  what  is  virtue?     Is  it  not  the  strength 
By  which  we  stand  steadfast  against  the  wrong? 
The  slender  cord  which  never  felt  a  strain, 
And  never  snapped,  shall  it  be  counted  strong, 
The  while  the  splendid  anchor  that  has  stood 

108 


A  century  of  mighty  tug  and  strain, 

Yet  breaks  at  last  and  wrecks  the  gallant  ship, 

Is  counted  weak?     Hark,  my  sweet  Magia — 

White  as  thy  thoughts  so  shall  thy  garments  be. 

Yes,  if  thy  thoughts  be  pure,  then  shalt  thou  pass 

Through  all  pollution  unpolluted.      Yea, 

As  fire  unto  asbestos,  unto  thee 

Will  all  corruption  be.     Even  more — thy  touch 

Will  purify  the  vileness,  and  thy  robes, 

Gleaming  with  threefold  whiteness  from  the  filth, 

Come  shaming  the  mock  purity  of  those 

Who  sit  in  high,  clean    places.      Magia,  go, 

You  and  your  brother;  earn  us  bread  and  clothes. 

I  still  have  one  strong  hand  to  serve  myself, 

And  make  and  mend  the  garments  for  you  both." 

So  Magia  and  Manley,  hand  in  hand, 
Upon  the  scorching  stones  went  up  and  down, 
From  street  to  street,  to  factories,  stores  and  shops, 
Asking  for  work.      Most  often  there  was  none, 
But  sometimes  Magia's   rosy,  dimpled  face 
That,  like  a  flower  washed  in  the  morning  dew, 
Which  neither  heat  nor  cold  had  power  to  wilt, 
Would  make  one  turn  and  look  again  and  say, 
"We  may  have  room  for  you,  but-  not  for  him." 
"He  is  my  brother,"  Magia  sweetly  said, 
"And  we  must  work  together.     Thank  you,  sir." 
Then  Magia's  dimpled  fingers  tightlier  twined 
Through  Manley's,  and  they  meekly  went  their  way, 
Until  at  last  they  found  a  place  for  both. 


109 


Then  Magia  and  Manley,  hand  in  hand, 
Went  into  serfdom  meekly,  joyously. 
And  all  day  long,  amid  the  jostling  throng 
That  steamed  with  summer  heat,  and  filled  the  air 
With  stifling  odors,  mingled  with  the  scent 
Of  mold  and  mildew  from  the  damaged  stuff 
The  eager  rabble,  wrangling  over,  dragged 
Hither  and  thither,  drawn  like  silly  moths 
By  flaming  lies  which  promised  something  fine 
For  foolish  prices,  only  to  be  burned, 
And  still  be  drawn  again,  again  be  burned — 
All  day  amid  the  ceaseless  din  of  gain 
And  bargain,  iri  the  fierce  electric  glare, 
Ever  the  little  feet  fled  up  and  down. 
And  everywhere  the  sweet  child  Magia  came, 
Her  face  a  blossom  brimmed  with  morning  sun, 
Like  flickering  sunbeams  on  the  pallid  lips 
Of  other  little  serfs,  broke  timid  smiles, 
For  there  was  morning  dew  upon  her  brow, 
A  dream  of  mountain  sunshine  in  her  eyes; 
The  summer  wind  breathed  in  her  restless  curls; 
Each  motion  was  a  hint  of  rustling  leaves, 
Her  laugh  the  echo  of  a  waterfall. 
Oft  when  the  tall  slave-driver's  searching  eyes 
Were  turned  another  way,  although  they  seemed 
To  look  all  ways  at  once — sharp,  baleful  eyes, 
Deep  set  in  hueress  cheeks,  like    embers  burned 
Low,  and  half  buried  in  gray  ashes, — then, 
If  little  Magia  saw  a  fragile  child 
Beneath  a  beastly  burden  staggering, 
She  sprang  and  lent  her  young  arm's  dimpled  strength 

110 


To  bear  the  heavy  burden  to  its  place; 
She,  being  so  fleet  and  light  of  foot,  regained 
Quickly  all  time  thus  lost  in  loving  deeds. 
So  there  are  hearts  that  live  too  fast  for  time, 
And  fill  with  kindly  deeds  and  helpful  words, 
The  golden  interstices  up,  which  lie 
Between  the  lazy  minutes. 

Bessie  drooped 

Her  shining  head  until  the  yellow  curls, 
Falling  low  forward,  veiled  her  face  and  eyes, 
That  none  might  see  her  weeping.    Then  she  wept, 
For  Bessie's  mother  was  but  two  days  dead. 
The  tears  fell  flashing  through  the  yellow  hair, 
Like  rain  through  sunshine.      Magia  turned  aside, 
And  kissed  the  tender  eyelids  dripping  wet 
Like  leaves  with  summer  showers,  the  pallid  cheBk 
Like  a  red  rose  washed  white  with  too  much  rain. 
Around  them  gathered  soon  an  eager  group 
Of  pitying  children,  when  a  sudden  crack, 
Like  dry  sticks  struck  together  in  the  air, 
Caused  them  to  leap  and  startle  like  wild  fawns 
Scared  from  the  thicket,  flying  fleet  and  far. 
Fast  the  pursuer  followed,  and  he  smote 
His  dry  palms  as  he  drove  the  frightened  flock 
Before  him. 

Ever  through  the  twice  long  days 
The  brave  child  Magia  kept  a  loving  watch 
Over  her  fragile  brother,  guarding  him 
From  wrong  and  insult,  sometimes  helping   him 
Perform  some  task  too  heavy  for  his  strength, 
When  she  could  do  it  slyly.     When  he  lost 

111 


The  pennies  saved  for  noontide  bread  and  tea, 

She  gave  him  hers  and  said,  without  a  blush, 

"I  found  them,  brother,  where  you  let  them  fall;" 

And  to  her  own  pure  conscience  answering  said,       * 

"Because  I  am  so  strong,  and  he  so  frail." 

Oh,  white  deceit  of  angels,  falsehood  fair, 

Oh,  generous  lie  that  shames  the  selfish  truth! 

Use  is  the  grace  and  glory  of  the  world. 

Justice  and  honor,  truth  and  purity, 

Are  merged  in  one  white  splendor — human  use; 

And  many  a  lie  has  had  so  white  a  soul, 

And  worn  such  beautiful  garments  of  chaste  love, 

That  the  cold,  naked,   unavailing  truth 

Has  humbly  bowed  herself  and  kissed  its  feet, 

As,  like  an  angel  beautifully  clothed 

And  loftily  crowned,  it  came  from  the  soul's  height, 

Serving  divinest  purposes.     For  naught 

Is  ever  good  or  evil  in  itself. 

The  purpose  is  the  spirit  and  the  power. 

In  the  white  hand  of  purity  all  things 

Which  men  have  deemed  unchaste,  turned  to  chaste 

ends, 
Glisten  with  angel  grace  and  purity. 

The  air  was  heavy  with  the  August  heat, 

And  sickening  exhalations  from  the  throng. 

She  saw  him  tugging  at  a  heavy  sack 

That  would  have  taxed  a  strong  man's  strength  that 

day, 

His  blue  eyes  straining  wide,  the  purple  veins 
Large  on  his  forehead,  where  the  drops  of  pain 

112 


And  weakness  gathered,  his  pale  lips  apart, 

His  delicate  nostrils  quivering.      Suddenly 

A  crimson  jet  burst  from  them  and  splashed  down 

Upon  the  white  hands.     Magia  reached  his  side, 

Careless  of  angry  word  or  ugly  frown, 

And  lent  her  tender  strength  to  move  the  weight. 

As  if  a  rude  wind  hurled  a  naked  bough 

From  some  dead  tree,  and  smote  her  tingling  cheek, 

It  reddened  with  a  sudden  angry  blow: 

"Who  bade  you  do  his  work?     Go  mind  your  own. 

If  he's  not  able,  we  will  send  him  home 

To  help  his  mother.      Get  to  business,  girl!" 

Then  Manley's  eyes  were  full  of  flash  and  fire. 

Like  a  poor  little  bird,  confused  and  stunned, 

That  dashes  blindly  at  a  blank  stone  wall, 

He  would  have  beat  his  life  out  on  the  man, 

But  Magia  clasped  his  trembling  hands  and  said, 

"It  didn't  hurt  me,  brother,  do  not  mind." 

And,  smiling  at  him,  darted  through  the  throng, 

As  if  a  sunbeam  fled  along  the  world, 

Forgotten  by  the  setting  sun,  nor  chilled, 

Nor  dimmed,  nor  frightened  by  the  shades  of  night. 

"I  wish  I  could  have  killed  him,  Magia," 
He  said  at  night,  while  Magia,  like  a  bird, 
Flew  here  and  there,  and  made  the  little  room 
With  cleanliness  and  order  blossom  forth. 
And  Manley  followed  her,  where'er  he  could 
Lending  a  helping  hand.      "Oh !   that  is  wrong. 
Perhaps  he  only  did  what  he  was  bid." 
"But,  Magia,  I  think  there  are  two  ways 

113 


Of  doing  every  duty — one  that's  sweet 

And  one  that's  hard  and  bitter.      The  sweet  way 

Will  make  our  duty  sweet  to  every  one. 

The  hard  way,  hard  to  others,  though  to  us 

It  have  the  pleasure  of  a  duty  done." 

"Sweet  Magia, "  the  mother  said,  and  reached 

Her  feeble  hand  to  twist  a  live,  bright  curl 

That  seemed  to  breathe  and  stir  on  Magia's  brow, 

"Come  smooth  my  pillow;  kiss  me;    that  is  sweet. 

Each  night  I  look  at  you  and  smile  to  see 

Your  cheeks  are  no  less  dimpled,  round  and  red. 

But  even  plants  that  flourish  in  the  dark 

Must  have  the  air.     The  breeze  is  from  the  lake; 

The  night  is  sweet  and  cool;  the  stars  are  bright. 

Go  with  your  brother  out  and  breathe  the  air." 

"O  mother,  I  would  rather  stay  with  you. 

To  morrow  we  will  go  a  half  hour  soon, 

And  see  the  sun  upon  the  lake  and  breathe 

The  pure  wind  blowing  from  it  washed  in  foam. " 

So  in  accord  with  Magia's  word  they  went. 

She  tossed  her  curls  back  toward    the  morning  sun, 

And    waved    her    dimpled    arms    and    leaped     and 

laughed: 

"See,  Manley,  how  I  run  to  meet  the  spray. 
O  brother,  what  a  lovely  world  it  is!  " 
"Yes,  Magia,  if  people  were  but  kind!" 
"If  we  are  kind  and  good,  why  should  it  mar 
The  beauty  of  the  world  when  men  are  bad?" 
"If  people  have  been  wicked  or  unkind, 
It  takes  the  golden  color  from    the  sun, 
And  makes  the  bluest  sky  look  dull  and  gray." 

114 


"O  brother,  it  is  never  so  to  me. 

If  people  have  been  cruel,  then  I  look 

At  the  sweet  sunlight;  that  is  always  kind. 

The  sky  is  pure;    the  stars  are  always  true; 

They  fill  me  with  sweet  comfort." 

"Magia, 

Nature  is  sometimes  wicked  and  unkind. 
She  often  hurts  us  or  else  those  we  love. " 

The  long  and  beauteous  autumn  by  the  lake 
Had  passed  away.    With  loud  and  blustering  breath 
The  winter  came  up  howling  from  the  sea, 
Clipping  the' days'  bright  locks  with  frosty  shears. 
Through  all  the  morning  little  Manley  drooped. 
At  noontime  Magia  turned  and  saw  him  climb 
With  slow  and  painful  steps  the  long,  steep  stairs. 
Unmindful  of  the  printed  card  which  hung 
Upon  the  wall,  prohibiting  the  "cash" 
From  taking  hands  when  climbing  up  the  stairs, 
She  turned  and  clasped  her  brother's  hand  in  hers, 
And  so  they  climbed  together,  hand  in  hand. 
At  top  of  stairs  a  sharp  glance  pierced  her  through, 
And  held  her  trembling  like  a  humming-bird 
Upon  a  tyrant's  bodkin:      "If  you  please," 
Said  Magia  sweetly,  "brother  is  not  well." 
The  thin  lips  of  the  overseer  laughed, 
A  laugh  that  crackled  like  a  burning  brier: 
"Is  that  our  business,  brazen,  insolent  girl? 
We  do  not  keep  a  sanitarium. 

You've  been  transgressing  long  enough.      Now  take 
Your  brother   home  and  nurse  him."     His  pale  lips 

115 


Curled  slowly  backward  from  his  gleaming  teeth, 
Like  sneering  waves  that  curl  back  from  white  rocks 
Where  they  have  wrecked  brave  ships. 

So  up  and  down 

Went  Magia  and  Manley,  hand  in  hand, 
Through  the  long  streets,  the  bitter,  biting  wind 
Driving  them  to  and  fro  like  tufts  of  down. 
And  often  they  were  rudely  turned  away, 
And  often,  looking  at  the  rosy  face 
Of  little  Magia,  one  would  say,  "Perhaps 
We  have  a  place  for  you,  but  not  for  him." 
"He  is  my  brother,"  Magia  sweetly  said, 
"We  must  have  work  together."     So  they  went 
Until  the  gray  wings  of  the  winter  eve 
Began  to  early  fold,  and  then  they  came 
To  a  great  factory  where  cloaks  were  made. 
Here  was  a  place  for  both  the  boy  and  girl. 
Here  Magia  sat  and  sewed  the  long  day  through, 
While  Manley  stood  and  pressed  the  finished  work. 
The  room  was  large  and  low  and  faintly  lit, 
And  here  the  little  slave  girls  sat  all  day, 
Patient  and  pale,  their  pretty  heads  bent  low, 
Almost  against  the  work  upon  their  knees, 
Straining  to  see  the  stitches  as  they  sewed. 
The  air  was  thick  with  dust  and  lint,  and  scent 
Of  many  colored  dyes,  and  tainted  breaths. 
The  din  of  flying  shuttles,  and  the  click 
Of  busy  needles,  and  the  roar  of  wheels, 
Made  up  the  long  monotony  of  sound. 
No  happy  speech  or  innocent  laughter  struck 
A  chord  of  sweetness  through  the  loud  discord, 

116 


For  silence  was  the  iron  law,  unless 

The  overseer  with  the  plump,  pink  cheeks 

And  silken  brown  mustache,  and  locks  that  curled 

In  hyacinthine  beauty  'round  his  brow, 

Was  called  to  leave  his  post  unsentineled;  — 

Then  Rosy  straightened  up  her  flaxen  head 

And  crooked  little  shoulders,  while  she  hummed 

An  old  hymn  tune  or  ballad  of  the  street. 

Once  Bertha  leaned  her  arms  on  Magia's  knees, 

Saying,  "You  will  not  keep  red  cheeks  like  that, 

If  you  stay  in  the  Slave  Hole.      I  work  hard, 

And  only  earn  enough  to  pay  the  rent, 

Nothing  for  shoes.     See  how  my  toes  peep  out. 

They'd  like  to  gnaw  the  flesh  off  of  our  bones, 

Then  keep  the  bones  for  making  penny  soup. 

Say,  Magia,  tell  me,  do  you  think  God  knows 

About  the  Slave  Hole?     Do  you  think  he  cares 

About  our  backaches?" 

"Surely,"  Magia  said, 
Uplifting  the  fresh  blossom  of  her  face, 
Brimmed  with  the  happy  sunlight  of  a  smile, 
Its  calyx  of  dark  ringlets  falling  back, 
"Why  else  I  see  no  use  of  all  the  world. 
Why  should  the  flowers  eat  sunlight  and  drink  dew, 
The  sky  and  sea  change  colors  hour  by  hour, 
The  winds  and  waves  make  music,  but  for  us? 
And  why  for  us  unless  God  cares?     I  think 
There  must  be  flights  of  angels  every  day 
From  heaven  to  earth,  and  back  again  to  heaven, 
To  bring  us  good  and  carry  back  our  needs." 
Then  Rosy  laughed  and  kicked  her  ragged  shoes: 

117 


"What  good  are  angels  loafing  rourid  in  heaven, 

Playing  on  harps?      I  wish  they'd  come  and  sew 

One  of  my  shoes  and  patch  the  other.      Ho! 

They  ought  to  substitute  a  little  while 

In  Slave  Hole,  and  give  us  poor  souls  a  turn 

At  the  green  fields  and  streams  of  Paradise." 

Said  Bertha,  leaning  still  on  Magia's  knees, 

"I  wish  they'd  come  and  sew  this  facing  on, 

My  back  aches  so,  and  let  me  rest  an  hour." 

"Oh!   let  me  play  at  angel  for  a  while, 

And  sew  it  on!"  the  sweet  child  Magia  cried. 

"And  what  of  your  work,  Magia?     Don't  you  know 

They  pay  by  piece  in  Slave  Hole,  not  by  time?" 

"Oh,  when  Pm  working  for  myself,  I  work, 

But  when  I  work  for  others,  then  I  play. " 

Still  went  the  days,  and  still  the  roses  lived 

In  Magia's  cheek,  nor  seemed  to  fade  or  droop. 

As  if  the  brave  persistence  of  their  bloom 

Angered  the  pink-cheeked  overseer,  he  seized 

Each  cruel  chance  to  give  her  a  harsh  word, 

Rebuke  her  if  her  eyes  were  off  her  work, 

Or  rudely  bid  her  rip  the  long  day's  task. 

And  once  his  fat,  white  fingers  clutched  her  curls, 

And   forced    the   small    head    toward    the  trembling 

knees. 

Grasping  the  pretty  shoulders  with  both  hands, 
He  crushed  them  rudely  forward,  crying,   "Jade, 
You  cannot  do  your  work  and  sit  so  straight." 
The  brave  child  Magia  uttered  not  a  word, 
Although  her  heart  was  bleeding.     For  herself 
Another  master  miVht  have  soon  been  found, 


For  she  had  willing  hands  and  strong,  swift  feet, 
But  Manley  was  so  frail  'twas  hard  to  find 
Another  place  for  him,  and  for  his  sake 
She  could  bear  any  wrong  or  cruelty. 

All  day  the  dull  sound  of  the  iron  smote 
On  Magia's  tender  heart,  and  oftentimes 
When  there  was  no  one  standing  sentinel, 
She  slipped  away  and  stood  in  Manley's  place, 
Pushing  the  heavy  iron  to  and  fro 
Amid  the  clouds  of  vapor,  while  he  tried  .    . ,  ' 
To  rest  his  weary  arms  and  aching  back. 
The  little  Rosy  shaped  her  pretty  lips 
To  make  a  low,  peculiar  sound,  which  served 
As  danger  signal,  when  the  foe  approached, 
Which,  Magia  hearing,  bird-like,  noiseless  flew 
Into  her  place  and  bent  above  her  work. 
And  now  the  April  days  returned — the  days 
Of  tearful  sunshine  and  of  sunny  showers. 
A  flaxen  head  was  missing:     "Where  is  Rose?" 
The  whisper  ran,  "She's  sick. "   Her  place  was  filled, 
As  wave  succeeds  to  wave,  and  no  one  seeks 
The  little  wave  that  ran  along  the  shore 
And  sparkled  in  the  sun  an  hour  ago. 
As  Magia  stood  upon  a  sweet,  warm  day, 
Pressing  a  heavy  garment,   Manley  cried, 
His  blue  eyes  full  of  pleading,   "Do  not  stay. 
There's  no  one  now  to  warn  you.    I  am  strong." 
"O  brother,  see  the  drops  upon  your  face, 
And  I  am  tired  sitting  all  day  long." 
While  Magia  spoke,  a  rude  hand  grasped  her  arm, 

119 


And  flung  her  back  so  hard  against  the  wall, 

She  staggered,  dizzy  with  the  sudden  shock, 

Nor  the  loud  words  of  harsh  dismissal  heard. 

But  Manley  put  his  little  hand  in  hers, 

And  drew  her  forth  into  the  gentle  rain 

That  fell  upon  their  young  heads  like  soft  tears 

Out  of  the  tender  but  unclouded  sky, 

As  from  a  gracious  blue  eye  pity-dim. 

So  fell  a  gentle  rain  on  Manley's  cheeks, 

Out  of  the  tender  blue  of  his  own  eyes. 

"Dear .little  brother,  tell  me  why  you  weep." 

"You  are  so  kind  you  hurt  me,  Magia. " 

"I  would  not  hurt  you,  not  for  all  the  world." 

"I  know  it,  Magia,  but  you  do  forget 

That  brave  'hearts  find  it  sweeter  to  give  help 

Than  to  receive  it.     Always  being  helped, 

And  never  helping,  makes  a  brave  heart  sick." 

"Dear  brother,  they  who  love  well  never  know 

How  much  or  in  what  ways  they  help,  because 

By  nature,  as  our  breathing,  it  is  done. " 

But  Magia  saw  he  was  not  comforted. 

They  found  that  day  a  place  called  "Little  Hell" 
By  the  poor  slaves   who   toiled   there   through  long 

hours 

Beneath  the  unlashed  eyeball  of  the  sun. 
Here  Magia  restrained  her  heart  and  hands 
From  offices  of  love:  "I  have  been  dull," 
She  whispered  to  her  heart,  "not  to  have  seen 
That  even  kindness  sometimes  has  a  sting." 
Now  when  the  summer  sat  upon  her  throne, 

120 


Mantled  in  dust  and  fire,  and  the  blue. sky 
Was  like  a  furnace  roof,  and  the  blue  lake 
Was  like  a  furnace  floor  from  which  hot  blasts 
Were  belched  into  the  city,  came  a  day 
When  little  Manley  wilted  like  a  flower, 
And  white  and  gasping  fell  upon  the  floor, 
And  the  command  was  given  to  bear  him  off 
And  lay  him  on  a  heap  of  dirty  rags 
Behind  a  door  that  shut  off  any  breath 
Of  languid  air  that  might  have  chanced  to  breathe 
Across  his  forehead.      Magia,  at  her  work, 
Heard  something  of  the  momentary  stir, 
And  turning,  missed  her  brother  from  his  place. 
She  fled  away  to  seek  him.     Bending  low, 
She  bathed  his  face  with  water  from  a  cup 
And  tears  from  her  full  eyelids:      "Brother,  wake! 
WThy  do  you  sleep  so  strangely?     Brother,  wake!" 
And  presently,  as  when  a  light  wind  stirs 
Between  the  leaves  of  a  white  rose,  his  lids 
Quivered  and  parted,  and  his  pale  lips  smiled: 
"I've  only  earned  a  dollar  every  week. 
How  weak  I  am  to  faint  and  earn  but  that! " 
"Why,  Manley,  I  have  never  earned  but  two, 
But  there's  no  need  of  buying  coal,  you  know; 
God  keeps  up  such  hot  fires  in  the  sun, 
And  we  can  make  three  dollars  last  a  week." 
"Here,  damn  you!  get  to  work!     It's  bad  enough 
To  have  one  bag  of  bones  upon  the  floor," 
Roared  like  the  wind  a  voice  in  Magia's  ear. 
A  pair  of  lurid  eyeballs  glared  on  her. 
The  brave  child  Magia  simply  answered  him: 

121 


"I  will  not  leave  my  brother;  he  is  sick. 
You  are  the  crudest  man  in  all  the  world." 
"Take  the  sick  kitten  home  and  nurse  him  there, 
And  see  you  do  not  bring  him  here  again." 
"O  Magia,  how  strong  and  brave  you  are!" 
Spoke  Manley,  leaning  sweetly  on  her  arm, 
For  brave  hearts  sometimes  find  it  sweet  to  lean. 
"I've  read  in  books  and  sometimes  heard  men  say 
That  girls  are  weak  and  timid,  but  I  think 
That  when  God  tries  to  make  a  woman  brave, 
She  has  an  angel  courage  that  outdares 
The  noisy  valor  and  brute  force  of  men." 
Spoke  Magia  softly,  "Yes,  I  know  men  say 
That  girls  are  weak  and  fearful,  but  somehow 
I  think  we're  made  of  the  same  stuff  as  men. 
What  is  there  noble  that  a  man  dare  do, 
I  dare  not  do,  if  there  be  need  of  it? 
I  am  afraid  of  nothing  in  the  world, 
Except  of  being  ungenerous  or  unkind, 
Or  doing  anything  which  is  untrue." 
And  so  they  talked  together  as  they  took, 
Seeking  the  shadows,  their  slow  homeward  way. 

Now  brought  the  peaceful  autumn  sunnier  days 
Unto  the  little  slaves.     They  having  found 
A  kinder  master,  and  being  older  grown, 
Performed  their  work  with  more  efficient  hands, 
And  wiser  heads  by  harsh  experience  trained. 
And  Magia  grew  and  blossomed  day  by  day, 
As  lithe  and  strong  and  slender  as  a  plant 
That  has  sweet  tutelage  of  sun  and  wind, 

122 


All  gentle  ministry  of  rain  and  dew, 
And  the  rich  sustenance  of  fertile  soil; 
And  Manley,  growing  too,  though  slowlier, 
Increased  in  stature  and  in  thews  of  limb, 
And  on  his  cheek  there  came  a  faltering  flush. 
According  as  the  body  slowly  grows, 
Ofttimes  the  soul  grows  fast,  too  strong  and  fast. 
Years  make  not  old,  but  sorrow;  one  night's  frost, 
And  lo!   the  delicate  bloom  of  youth  is  gone. 
So  grew  the  soul  of  Manley  strong  and  fast. 
He  thought  as  men  do,  felt  as  men  do,  .lived 
In  fifteen  years  as  much  as  most  men  do 
In  twice  fifteen.      And  strangely  stirred  his  blood, 
As  the  deep  mysteries  of  human  life 
Broke  on  his  dazzled  being,  and  his  heart 
Began  to  start  and  flutter  at  the  touch 
Of  Magia's  hand,  the  music  of  her  voice. 
Her  grace  was  in  the  motion  of  the  trees, 
Her  laughter  in  the  rippling  of  the  waves, 
Her  smile  gleamed  in  the  starlight,  and  he  said, 
"I  will  not  call  her  'sister'  by  and  by, 
But  only  'Magia,'  and  then — and  then — 
I'll  call  her  'sweetheart,'  oh!   and  then — and  then — 
I'll  call  her  'wife.'"    And  so  he  dreamed  a  dream, 
And  lived  in  it  until  the  present  grew 
Misty  and  dim  about  him.      Many  souls 
Thus  live  in  moonlight,  melancholy,  sweet, 
Of  a  to-morrow  that  is  ever  lit 
By  the  reflected  light  of  some  bright  orb 
Of  unseen  happiness  that  shines  afar. 
Love  is  a  bird  that  comes  to  every  heart, 

123 


Each  in  its  season,  to  some  soon,  some  late, 

To  wake  the  deep  recesses  with  its  thrills 

Of  tuneful  song,  to  stir  the  yet  green  leaves 

Of  promise,  gather  up  the  scattered  shreds 

Of  faded  joys  and  tufts  of  soft  dream-down 

From  long-forsaken  pillows,  bear  them  up 

Into  the  sunlight,  and  green  boughs  of  hope, 

To  build  of  them  a  nest  in  which  to  brood 

The  snowy  dream-eggs  of  new  life  and  song. 

So  early  came  the  bird  to  Manley's  heart, 

Filling  its  ^depths  with  melody;  the  while 

Dwelt  Magia  in  the  sunlight  of  to-day, 

In  childhood's  slumberous,  sweet  unconsciousness 

Of  pain  and  passion.     And  so  flowed  the  years, 

Another  and  another  and  another, 

Until  it  seemed  that  they  would  flow  on  so 

Forever  and  forever  and  forever. 

But  down  the  aisle  one  morning  passed  a  youth, 
Giving  command  on  either  hand  like  one 
Clothed  with  authority.      His  curls  were  brown 
As  the  ripe  nuts  of  autumn,  and  his  eyes 
Of  one  tint  with  his  curls.      His  lips  were  red 
As  ripe  twin  berries,  lithe  his  form  and  straight, 
And  eloquent  with  motion,  and  his  smile 
Was  such  a  one  as  being  meant  for  none, 
Yet  seemed  bestowed  on  each  particular  face 
With  an  especial  sweetness.     So  he  passed 
Smiling  on  all  wan  faces,  till  he  came 
To  Magia's  counter,  where  he  paused  and  gazed, 
Then  passed  on,  muttering  beneath  his  breath, 

124 


"By  Jove,  the  prettiest  face  I  ever  saw!" 
Upon  the  morrow  morn  he  came  and  talked 
About  the  pretty  laces  that  she  sold, 
And  said,  "I  think  you  have  not  slaved  long  thus 
For  little,  in  a  dark  and  dingy  place." 
And  Magia  answered,  smiling,  "Five  years,  sir!  " 
"By  Jove!     I  think  those  roses  that  you  wear 
The  hardiest  ever  bloomed  on  maiden's  cheek." 
Each  day  he  stood  by  Magia  and  leaned 
His  face  down  smiling,  till  the  whisper  ran, 
"He  has  a  lover's  look  for  Magia." 
And  once  he  gently  took  her  hand  in  his; 
Her  face  was  lifted  glowing  like  a  flower 
On  which  a  sudden  gleam  of  sunlight  falls. 
She  said  within  herself,  "He  likes  me  well, 
And  I  am  glad.     'Twas  never  so  before. 
It  will  be  better  for  my  brother  now." 
Late  on  an  afternoon  he  passed  and  said 
In  a  low,  sudden  whisper,  bending  down 
Until  his  red  lips  seemed  to  touch  her  curls, 
"Your  books  are  wrong.      Come  back  a  little  while 
After  the  rest  are  gone,  past  six  o'clock, 
And  I  will  show  you  where  the  error  is." 
So  Magia,  mutely  wondering,  took  her  way 
Along  the  crowded  highway  to  the  bridge, 
Then,  smiling,  turned,  "My  brother,  do  not  wait, 
For  Mr.  Grandville  says  my  books  are  wrong, 
And  bids  me  come  to  have  them  straightened  out." 
He  answered  nothing,  but  the  hot  blood  burned 
Away  the  spirit  whiteness  of  his  brow. 
He  stood  and  leaned  and  watched  a  stately  boat 

125 


Puffing  its  slow  way  through  the  yawning  bridge, 
And  pressed  his  hands  together.      Magia  passed 
Within  the  door,  and  stood  to  wait  the  will 
Of  him  who  bade  her  thither.     When  he  came, 
He  swung  the  heavy  door  upon  its  hinge, 
And  turned  the  heavy  key  within  its  lock, 
Then  set  his  back  against  the  door,  meanwhile 
Crossing  his  youthful  arms  and  looked  at  her; 
And  in  his  look  was  something  new  and  strange, 
Something  which  burned  and  blighted,  clothed    her 

cheek 

With  blushes  for  a  shame  which  was  not  hers, 
A  shame  she  understood  not — blushes  pure 
For  man's  impurity,  discerned  afar 
And  faintly  in  the  pure  depths  of  her  soul — 
Far  off  like  smoke  in  an  unclouded  heaven; 
And  like  some  flowers  by  nature  sweetly  taught 
To  fold  themselves  away  from  human  touch, 
She  gathered  up  herself  into  herself, 
And  with  a  shiver  shut  her  eyelids  down. 
He  said,  "Your  books  are  wrong,  but  there's  a  way 
To  set  them  right.     I've  helped  the  girls  before." 
Quickly  the  cherub  innocence  in  her 
Grew  to  a  wise  archangel,  armed  and  strong. 
She  raised  her  fearless  eyes  and  looked  at  him, 
As  if  she  looked  upon  a  loathsome  worm 
That  crawled  upon  a  white  fold  of  her  dress, 
And  which  she  brushed  off  with  a  shuddering  touch, 
A  shudder  born  of  loathing  and  not  fear; 
And  then  she  lifted  up  her  little  hand 
With  an  imperious  gesture,  and  he  shrank 

126 


And  cowered,  and  again  she  raised  her  hand 
With  that  imperious  gesture,  and  he  moved, 
And  like  a  serpent  by  an  angel's  eye 
Charmed  to  her  will,  wide  open  set  the  door, 
And  stood  aside,  with  eyes  cast  meekly  down 
In  gentle  reverence,  to  let  her  pass. 

All  night  upon  her  pillow  Magia  tossed, 

And  reasoned  with  herself  what  course  were  wise. 

"For  if  I  go,  my  brother  will  go  too, 

And  there's  no  likelihood  that  we  can  find 

Another  place  so  suited  to  his  strength. 

But  if  I  stay  and  keep  as  still  and  pure 

As  snow  upon  a  hidden  mountain  ledge, 

What  harm  can  come  to  me  or  any  one?" 

Upon  the  morrow  morn  a  better  place 
Was  made  for  Manley  with  increase  of  pay, 
And  Arthur  Grandville,  passing  Magia's  way, 
Scarce  looked  at  her,  or  if  perchance  he  spoke 
On  necessary  business,  then  his  tone 
Was  low  and  full  of  gentle  reverence. 
But  Manley's  face  was  overcast  with  gloom. 
And  Magia  said,    "What  is  it  I  have  done? 
I  have  been  over  anxious  to  be  kind, 
Have  helped  him  sometimes  when  there  was  no  need 
Forgetting  kindness  sometimes  has  a  sting. 
I  will  be  wise  and  watchful  after  this." 
So  she  restrained  herself  from  helpful  deeds 
That  were  so  natural,  and  asked  instead, 
"My  brother,  kindly  bring  me  this,  or  that;" 

127 


Or,  "Brother  Manley,  help  me  with  this  task 

I  pray;"  or,  "Please  to  carry  this  for  me." 

Whereat  he  always  flashed  into  a  smile. 

Once  Magia  came  and  laid  a  loving  hand 

On  either  shoulder,  as  she  sometimes  did, 

And  leaned  her  lips  to  his,  her  rich,  warm  lips. 

The  conscious  color  leaped  into  his  cheeks; 

He  pushed  her  gently  from  him:      "You  forget 

That  you  are  not  my  sister,  Magia; 

There  is  no  tie  of  blood  between  us  two." 

She  started  back  in  pale,  large-eyed  surprise: 

"Ah!   brother  Manley,  you  forget  that  I 

First  taught  you  the  sweet  lesson  of  a  kiss." 

"Nay,  Magia,  I  remember  it  so  well 

That  it  reminds  me  that  there  is  no  tie 

Of  blood  between  us  two."     She  answered  him 

With    lips    that    quivered,    and    with    hands    hard 

clasped, 

"Oh!  there  are  sometimes  gulfs  as  deep  as  hell 
Between  hearts  bound  as  close  as  blood  can  bind, 
While  others,  fettered  by  no  natural  ties, 
Move  side  by  side  together  through  the  world, 
As  we  may  often  see  two  stars  in  heaven, 
Bound  by  no  visible  cord,  yet  wandering  on, 
Brother  and  sister-like  among  the  spheres. 
Oh!  kiss  me,  Manley;  be  my  brother  still!" 
He  leaned  and  kissed  her  then,  and  went  away, 
And  laid  himself  upon  the  cool  white  sand, 
And  turned  his  pale  face  toward  the  cool  green  sea. 
"Mad,  foolish  thought  within  a  mad  fool's  brain — 
To  dream  that  I  could  be  a  mate  for  her! 

128 


I  dreamed  and  waked  not  until  yester  morn, 

When  by  an  accident  I  saw  us  three 

Reflected  in  a  mirror.     Did  I  say, 

'An  accident  it  seemed?'  and  yet  it  seemed 

As  if  the  hands  of  doom  and  destiny 

Were  laid  upon  my  brow  to  make  me  turn 

And  logk  upon  the  vision.     There  we  stood, 

They  two  together  with  their  curls  flung  back. 

Their  cheeks  were  ripe  with  youth,  and  he  so  strong 

And  tall  and  lithe  and  bright  and  beautiful, 

And  she  more  bright  and  beautiful  than  he. 

I  stood  apart  so  small  and  sad  and  pale, 

With  stooping  shoulders  and  with  slender  limbs. 

I  saw  the  vision,  and  my  heart  leaped  up, 

I  almost  heard  it  cry  out  in  my  breast. 

But  I  will  love  her  still,  and  love  her  well, 

As  loves  the  sea  the  moon — far  off,  far  off, 

And  follows  her  forever  'round  the  world, 

Crowning  itself  with  jewels  in  her  light, 

Reflecting  all  her  phases — for  I  know 

I  shall  be  nobler  loving  one  so  pure; 

And  then — and  then — love  is  not  all  of  life. 

I  shall  grow  learned  and  good  and  wise  and  strong, 

Winning  an  angel  mastery  o'er  myself, 

And  do  perhaps  some  great  work  in  the  world, 

And  men  shall  say,  'How  good  is  it  he  lived!'" 

The  white  moon  like  a  fair  young  shepherdess, 
Above  him  watched  amid  her  starry  flock, 
Feeding  on  light  as  they  moved  tranquilly 
Through  the  wide,  dewy  pastures  of  the  skies. 

129 


He  rose  and  walked  across  the  cool,  white  sands, 
And  turned  into  the  street  that  homeward  led. 

NOTE:    I  am  indebted  to  a  series  of  articles  in  the  Times  for  1888,  for  some 
of  the  incidents  in  Part  II  of  this  book. — THE  AUTHOR 


PART  III 
REVOLT 

"Sweet  sister,  let  us  rest  upon  our  oars. 
The  evening  flings  his  purple  mantle  wide, 
And  shows  his  starry  girdle.     Tell  me,  pray, 
How  many  do  you  love  in  all  the  world?" 
"My  mother  and  my  brother." 

"None  but  these?" 

"None  other;    I  have  no  one  else  to  love." 
"And  do  you  love  me  truly,  Magia?" 
"Whom  should  I  love,  my  brother,  if  not  you? 
Who  is  so  kind  to  me  in  all  the  world?" 
"We  do  not  always  love  those  hearts  the  best 
That  beat  most  kindly  toward  us,  and  God  knows 
We  cannot  help  it.      Hearts  are  curious  things. 
But,  sister,  there's  a  thing  that  I  would  say. 
I  have  not  been  a  spy  upon  your  ways, 
But  a  fond  brother's  eyes  are  quick  to  see 
What  threats  a  sister's  happiness,  and  I 
Have  marked  how  often  Grandville  takes  your  hand! 
How  low  and  tenderly  he  speaks  to  you! 
And  you  are  kind  to  him.     I  like  it  not, 
Because  I  like  him  not;  he  is  not  true. 

130 


I  speak  with  reason;   trust  me,  Magia. " 
"If  he  but  knew  it  is  for  love  of  him 
That  I  am  kind  for  most  part — but  no,  no! 
I  would  not  have  him  know  for  all  the  world, 
For  all  the  world  and  all  the  stars  in  heaven." 
So  Magia  spoke  in  silence  with  herself, 
And  then  aloud:     "But  surely  it  is  good 
To  treat  the  sins  of  men  with  gentleness, 
As  you  would  treat  a  sickness  of  the  flesh, — 
For  are  they  not  a  sickness  of  the  soul? — 
And  heal  them  with  the  touch  of  purity 
And  truth  and  honor!" 

"Sister  Magia, 

I  oft  have  seen  the  black  filth  of  the  street 
Smirch  up  the  angel  whiteness  of  the  snow, 
But  I  have  never  seen  the  purest  snow 
Convert  the  slime  and  vileness  of  the  street 
Into  a  snowy  whiteness." 

"But  he's  kind. 

Shall  kindness,  brother,  not  be  kindly  met?" 
"I  say  there  is  no  honor  in  the  world 
That  is  not  tarnished  by  expediency. 
I  say  there  is  no  kindness  in  the  world 
That  does  not  bear  the  rust  of  selfishness. 
To  do  the  kindly  act  where  lies  the  need, 
In  the  first  pure,  virgin  impulse  of  the  heart, 
Stead  of  where  lies  the  earnest  of  reward, 
Demands  such  calm,  unbiased  heights  of  love, 
Sweet  courage  and  brave  purpose — heights  so  far 
Above  the  common  levels  of  the  world 
That  few  have  ever  gained  their  starry  peace. 

131  * 


Do  not  our  laws  confess  that  men  are  brutes, 

Incapable  of  noble  self-restraint, 

By  licensing  the  brutish  and  the  base 

In  human  nature,  making  our  great  sins 

Simply  a  little  costlier  than  our  less? 

None  is  for  the  sweet  sake  of  goodness,  good, 

Gaining  an  angel  mastery  of  himself, 

Without  the  fear  of  evil  or  the  hope 

Of  profit." 

"True,  my  brother,  true,  and  yet, 
Had  all  the  angels  sinned  with  Lucifer, 
But  one  being  leal  and  steadfast  unto  God, 
By  him  is  angelship  made  possible 
In  heaven  forever,  to  angels  after-born, 
Redeeming  angelhood.     So  Christ,  being  pure, 
Made  purity  ever  possible  to  men, 
Redeeming  mankind.      Brother,  it  is  true 
That  Circe  boldly  walks  amid  the  throng, 
And  builds  her  palaces  on  every  street, 
Inviting  men  to  enter  and  be  swine, 
And  most  men  without  blushing  enter  in. 
But  since  I  know  my  brother  is  heart-pure, 
Untarnished  by  the  baseness  of  the  world, 
Through  him  my  heart  will  keep  its  faith  in    man." 
He  turned  and  looked  upon  her  with  a  smile: 
"Faith! — faith  in  God,  that  is,  in  ultimate  good, 
Faith  in  humanity,  in  thine  own  soul — 
Of  all  the  virtues  faith's  the  fairest  star 
Of  those  that  'round  the  splendor  of  the  soul, 
Cluster  and  show  its  brightness,  like  the  sun 
Clasped  by  his  shining  rosary  of  worlds. 
»    132 


Do  you  believe  in  me,  my  sister?" 

"Yes." 
"And  in  no  other  man?" 

"None  other." 

"Thanks! 

That  is  the  sweetest  tonic  of  my  life." 
Then  they  took  up  their  oars,  and  silence  reigned, 
Except  the  silver  clash  of  oar  and  wave, 
And  the  soft  kissing  of  the  liquid  lips 
Of  sleepless  waters  on  the  little  skiff, 
While  many  rays  of  starshine,  softly  blent, 
Made  a  faint  splendor,  till  the  rising  moon 
Flung  out  a  silver  plank  across  the  sea, 
Like  a  fair  ship  unto  her  moorings  come. 
Then  slowly  shoreward  moved  the    little  boat, 
And  the  sweet  Sabbath  rest  was  at  an  end. 
Then  after  three  nights  Arthur  Grandville  came, 
In  all  the  fair  assurance  of  bright  youth, 
And  sat  at  Magia's  feet,  and  bowed  his  head 
Above  her  hands,  and  murmured,   "Magia, 
You  are  the  sweet  saint  whose  rebuking  smile 
Has  curbed  the  youthful  passion  of  my  blood, 
And  waked  the  angel  yearning  in  my  breast 
To  stand  beside  you,  pure  as  you,  nay,  more — 
For  he  who  once  has  tasted  sin,  and  been 
A  slave  to  passion  and  to  appetite, 
Then  throttled  both,  and  stood  up  brave  and  strong 
And  angel -pure,  is  more  than  angels  are, 
Who  never  have  been  tempted,  nor  have  known 
The  witchery  of  passion.     O  beloved, 
I  never  knew  how  lovely  virtue  was, 

133 


How  beautiful  are  purity  and  truth, 
What  joy  to  make  our  strongest  passions  slaves, 
And  lead  them  captive  at  the  chariot  wheels 
Of  some  pure,  conquering  purpose,  until  you 
Unveiled  the  mystic  beauty  unto  me. 
Deal  kindly  with  me;  I  was  never  taught 
That  license  is  not  liberty,  nor  yet, 
By  kindly  circumstances  nobly  wrought. 
For  what  we  are,  we  are,  not  of  ourselves, 
But  from  the  hissing  crucible  of  life, 
Poured  out  into  the  iron  mold  of  things, 
Stamped  with  the  universe  that  is  and  was, 
And  all  the  long,  long  aeons.      Magia, 
Will  you  not  come  and  help  me  to  be  good?" 
"Sir,  I  can  never  love  you,  though  I  fain 
Would  help  you  to  be  pure.     Pray  loose  my  hands. 
I  cannot  love  you,  and  I  pray  you  go." 
"You  shall  not  send  me  from  you,  Magia. 
No,  for  your  brother's  sake  you  will  not.     Know 
His  comfort  and  promotion  are  with  me." 
"Is  this  the  newly  wakened  angel's  voice?" 
Was  Magia's  low  and  sorrowful  response. 
"It  is  an  infant  angel,  and  its  voice 
Is  but  a  plaintive,  inarticulate  cry. 
It  must  be  watched  and  nurtured  tenderly." 
"Sir,  you  are  young  and  strong  and  beautiful; 
Is  there  no  other  one  to  love  you  well?" 
"There  is  a  fair,  sweet  girl,  with  locks  like  rays 
Of  golden  light  about  the  brow  of  morn, 
And  she  has  loved  me  long  and  loved  me  well. 
But  if  I  love  her  not,  what  then,  what  then?" 

134 


"I  think  we  are  too  apt  to  lightly  prize 
Affections  easily  and  always  ours." 
"You  will  not  send  me  from  you,  Magia, 
And  strangle  the  new  yearning  in  my  breast? 
You  will  be  kind  at  least,  and  grant  to  me 
One  touch  of  your  pure  lips  upon  my  own, 
To  be  the  inspiration  of  new  hopes. 
You  would  not  feel  its  loss  more  than  the  sun 
Would  miss  a  little  sunbeam  going  forth, 
Laden  with  life  for  some  despairing  flower." 
Then  Magia  wavered,  arguing  with  herself, 
"If  I  could  do  him  good,  and  so  bring  good 
Unto  my  brother,  should  I  not  do  this?" 
She  said,  "For  his  sake  and  for  yours!"  then  stooped 
And  gently  kissed  him,  and  the  little  clock 
Upon  the  mantel,  sharp  and  shrill,  struck  nine; 
And  Manley  passed  before  the  open  door, 
Unseen,  but  seeing  with  wide,  glittering  eyes. 
He  fled  into  the  night  and  seized  a  boat 
And  bending  all  his  strength,  rowed   fast  and  far 
Beyond  the  bar,  then  laid  aside  his  oars, 
And  listened  to  the  chuckling  of  the  waves 
That  seemed  to  mock  his  sorrow,  and  he  cried: 
"I  think,  if  death  had  taken  her  in  his  arms, 
And  kissed  the  mirth  and  music  from  her  lips, 
I  think  I  could  have  kissed  her  eyelids  then, 
And  her  lips'  richness  with  the  rose-mist  gone, 
And  her  brow's  marble  with  the  thought-grace  fled 
The  cold  snow  of  her  throat,  her  cheeks,  her  hands, 
And  whispered,   'O  beloved,  thou  art  missed, 
But  still  thy  memory  lingers  like  a  glow, 

135 


An  after-sunset  splendor  that  will  bridge 
The  darkness  'twixt  the  evening  and  the  dawn 
Of  parting  and  of  meeting.      But  to  know 
That  she  has  stooped  to  baseness;  that  she  is 
Less  noble  than  I  thought  her;  that  her  heart 
Is  not  the  pure  and  perfect  pearl  I  thought 
Beat  in  her  bosom,  this  is  agony, 
A  thorn  to  which  the  mighty  sting  of  death 
Is  as  a  tender  rose.      My  heart,  my  heart, 
How  thou  dost  ache,  being  full  of  frozen  tears, 
Which  yet  will  burst  thee  if  thou  dost  not  ease 
Thyself  by  weeping  or  by  utterance! 
Have  I  not  oft  read  poems  quivering 
With  lovers'  heart-beats,  written  to  allay 
Their  secret  heart-pain?     I  will  write  one  too: 

:i'Twas  not  you  that  1  loved,  but  an  ideal  that  grew 

in  my  brain, 

Like  a  beautiful  infant  angel  unconscious  of  pain, 
Born  of  my  heart  and  my  brain,  and  nursed  to  its  fill 
At  the  rose-tinged,  white    bosom  of  Fancy  through 

long  months,  until 

It  stood  up  beautiful,  strong,  full-statured,  complete 
From  radiant  wing-tip    to  wing-tip,  white    forehead 

to  feet. 
Then  I  searched  till  I  found  a  woman's  fair  form  to 

enshrine 
Most   fitly   my  angel,    then  cried,     'Thou  art  mine! 

thou  art  mine!' 

Then  I  knelt,  and  I  worshiped,  and  wept  in  a  trans 
port  of  bliss, 
Till  a   voice,    through    the    shock    of    events,    cried 

aloud,    'What  is  this? 
Look,  fool!'     And  I  saw  that   the   shrine   had  been 

fractured;    and  lo, 

136 


Through  the  flaw  all  the  want  and  the  weakness 
were  visible.  Oh! 

In  anguish  I  learned  that  my  shrine  was  not  fit  to 
retain 

My  beautiful  ideal;  that  I  must  receive  it  again. 

If  an  angel  leaned  over  the  golden  edge  of  yon  star, 

And  motioned  the  spheres  into  silence,  and  whis 
pered  from  far 

That  the  music  and  splendor  of  heaven  would  make 
full  amend 

For  the  discord  and  darkness  of  earth  from  begin 
ning  to  end, 

I  think  I  should  dare  then  to  challenge  his  angelic 
word; 

I  should  laugh  as  I  answered,  'Thou  snow-plumed, 
heavenly  bird, 

Escaped  from  God's  palm  trees  of  peace!  O  thou 
star-crested  dove, 

What  knowest  thou  of  the  human  passion    of  love, 

With  its  thrills  and  its  anguish?  Return  to  thy 
bowers  of  bliss. 

All  heaven  can  never  atone  for  an  hour  like  this.'" 

This  does  not  ease  my  heartache.     Oh!   I  would 
That  I  could  take  up  some  sweet  instrument, 
And  breathe  myself  out  through  its  trembling  strings! 
For  music  is  the  language  of  those  deep 
Emotions  that,  too  subtle  even  for  thought, 
Burst  from  the  heart  in  sweet  concordant  sounds, 
Breathing  the  yearning  passion  and  the  pain 
That  human  speech  is  impotent  to  bear. 
God,  if  thou  hast  an  angel  yet  to  spare, 
Send  him  to  comfort  me.      How  vain  I  speak! 
For  prayer  is  but  man's  low  wail  of  despair, 
His  infant  cry  of  weakness,  his  complaint 
Against  the  might  and  majesty  of  things. 

137 


Lo,  when  I  pray,  see  how  the  words  drop  back 

Upon  my  burning  heart,  like  meteors 

Cast  upward  from  the  sun,  to  fall  again 

Into  its  seething  bosom,  or  go  forth 

Into  the  darkness,  and  sink  cold  and  dead. 

Listen,  my  heart,  thou  never  wilt  grow  strong, 

Till  thou  hast  learned  to  battle,  and  not  cry, 

'Help,  help!'   for  there  is  none  to  give  thee   help. 

Each  thrids  his  night  of  agony  alone, 

Feels  out  sometimes  to  find  a  strong,  bright  soul 

To  lean  on,  thinks  he  finds  one,  tries  to  lean. 

Alas!   it  fails  him  where  he  needs  it  most. 

He  learns  'tis  easier  to  move  upright, 

Self-poised,  self-balanced  like  a  wheeling  star 

About  his  own  soul's  center.      Magia, 

0  Magia,  do  I  not  love  thee  still? 
Can  I  forget  all  in  one  little  hour, 

Thy  gentle  tones,  the  sweet  wine  of  thy  lips, 
And  the  perpetual  daybreak  on  thy  brow, 
Thy  gracious  readiness  to  kindly  deeds  — 
Things  woven  into  the  tissues  of  my  soul 
By  years  of  tender  intercourse?    No,  no! 

1  must  unravel  through  slow  months  and  years, 
This  shining  thread  from  out  the  warp  and  woof 
Of  all  my  being,  loving  somewhat  still. 

Now  will  I  hold  myself  aloof  from  men, 
With  just  enough  of  contact  to  preserve 
A  kindly  human  warmth  about  the  heart, 
And  make  myself  a  world  of  love  and  truth, 
Honor  and  purity,  with  noble  thoughts, 
And  the  great,  gracious  souls  that  dwell  in  books. 

138 


I  will  not  be  a  hermit,  for  I  know 
The  world  needs  every  pure  life.      A  true  man 
Should  have  an  upward  and  a  downward  reach, 
One  hand  grip  earth,  the  other  grasp  at  heaven. 
I  never  thought  much  of  Saint  Simeon, 
Who  let  the  pure  life  in  him  run  to  waste 
On  a  grim  pillar,  cheating  men  of  good." 
So  Manley,  moving  homeward,  mused,  and  so, 
Flushed  with  fresh  resolution  like  new  wine, 
His  heart  beat  lighter,  and  his  lips  half  smiled 
As  Magia  met  him:      "Brother,  why  so  late?" 
"My  sister,  wherefore  do  you  wait  for  me?" 
"Wherefore?  and  wherefore  not,  since  you  are  sad? 
Tell  me  your  trouble;   1  will  comfort  you." 
"Some  sorrows,  sister,  must  be  borne  alone." 
"But  there  are  heavy  rings  around  your  eyes. 
You  used  not  thus  to  talk,  but  ever  spoke 
Your  griefs  and  troubles  freely  in  my  ear." 
"Yes,  children  prattle,  and  I  was  a  child. 
If  I  feel  strong,  shall  I  make   boast  of  it? 
A  boast  is  hateful  in  the  sight  of  heaven  ; 
For,  mark  you,  when  you  boast  that  anything 
Is  thus,  or  thus,  according  to  your  wish 
The  contrary  will  happen.      If  I  say 
'I  have  not  slipped  in  this  way  for  thus  long,' 
'I'm  doubtless  cured  of  this  fault,'  straight  I  slip; 
Or  if  I  say,  'This  pain  is  vanquished  quite,' 
Straightway  the  dead  nerve  twinges,  and  I  think 
That  silence  is  the  badge  of  dignity. 
In  youth  mind's  golden  center  lieth  bare, 
But  ripening  years  do  shrine  it  in  like  leaves, 

139 


Because  we  learn  that  there  is  none  to  help." 
"God  help  you,  brother,  if  I  cannot." 

"No, 

God  cannot  help  me;  I  must  help  myself. 
For  there  is  a  divinity  within, 
A  spirit  and  a  power  that  compels 
Us  on  and  on  to  shape  our  destiny; 
To  wrestle  godlike  with  the  iron  bands 
Of  social  wrong,  and  of  inevitable, 
Cold,  blind  necessity  of  natural  laws, 
That,  riveted  upon  the  rocks  of  time, 
Would  hold  us  down  forever  and  forever, 
The  while  above  us,  upon  eagle  wings, 
Our  aspirations,  hovering,  ascend 
And  descend,  feeding  on  our  beating  hearts." 
Then  Magia  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  brow, 
And  answered  very  slowly,  reverently: 
"I  know  not  if  there  be  what  men  call  God, 
A  power  divine,  external  to  ourselves, 
That  guides  the  arm  of  Justice  when  she  strikes, 
And  through  the  vast  unmeaning  of  men's  ways 
Weaves  out  sublimest  purpose;   but  somehow, 
There  is  an  inward  faith,  a  conscious  rest 
On  something  constant  in  the  whirl  of  change, 
A  power  divine  that  makes  the  right  to  win, 
And  on  the  beautiful  feet  of  goodness,  swift 
And  sure,  makes  good  to  follow. "     Magia  paused, 
And  Manley  turned  the  sorrow  of  his  eyes 
Upon  the  eager  beauty  of  her  face: 
"Each  act  of  ours  will  have  its  sure  result. 
Deceive,  and  you  will  have  deception's  fruits. 

140 


Be  sure  no  angel  stands  behind  our  deeds 

To  gather  up  the  tangled  ends  we  leave, 

And  weave  them  into  beautiful  designs. 

And  what  we  are,  we  are  because  we  will. 

The  stern,  invincible  rocks  of  circumstance, 

Formed  by  the  ages  that  have  gone  before, 

'Gainst  which  we  beat  ourselves  like  ocean  waves, 

Make  the  bright  foam  and  music  of  our  lives. 

A  splendid  anvil  is  necessity, 

On  which  we  lay  our  souls  like  glowing  steel, 

And  with  the  mighty  hammer  of  the  will, 

Amid  the  ringing  notes  and  flying  sparks, 

Beat  out  that  which  we  are  and  will  to  be." 

"You  seem  so  strange  to-night  you  make  me  sad. 

I  do  not  understand  you,  but  I  think 

It  is  the  strange  books  that  you  read  of  late. 

Tell  me  their  names,  and  I  will  read  them  too, 

So  comprehend  you." 

"'Tis  not  what  we  know, 
Nor  yet  what  we  believe,  but  what  we  are 
That  fashions  our  Hereafter,  as  our  Here. 
Be  true,  whatever  else  you  are,  be  true." 
"Why  talk  to  me,  my  brother,  of  deceit, 
And  being  true?     Am  I  not  always  true?" 
"My  sister,  you  are  always  kind."     ' 

"Not  kind 
But  true,  say  true." 

"My  sister,  always  kind!  " 

With  that  he  turned  and  kissed  her  and  went    out. 
But  Magia  sat  still  with  chin  on  hand, 
With  eyelids  drooping,  and  with  tremulous  mouth: 

141 


"The  night  is  close,  and  I  am  sad  at  heart. 
How  is  it  I  have  so  offended  him? 
Perhaps  I  am  too  loving  for  a  girl 
That  is  no  kin  of  his.      He  thinks  me  bold, 
Wanting  somewhat  in  maidenly  reserve. 
How  can  I  learn  to  blush  beneath  his  glance, 
I  who  have  looked  so  frankly  in  his  eyes, 
As  if  he  were  my  brother,  all  these  years? 
True,  we  were  children,  and,  dear  God,  I  would 
We  could  be  always  children,  simple,  pure, 
As  frank  and  free  and  fond  as  children  are. 
Hereafter  I  will  teach  myself  reserve 
And  all  restraint  becoming  to  a  girl 
Who  is  no  kin  of  his."     And  so  it  was 
That  Magia  met  her  brother  with  a  smile 
That  was  like  frost  upon  a  sunny  morn — 
Bright  and  yet  cold,  and  all  her  words  and  ways 
Were  gentle  but  restrained,  and  still  they  went 
Together  to  their  work  and  home  again, 
And  Manley's  heart  ached  hard  against  his  will, 
Seeing  how  cold  and  distant  she  had  grown. 
Magia  gathered  up  his  every  word, 
And  analyzed  it  in  her  secret  soul. 
Was  heaven  wise  to  lock  each  human  heart. 
With  such  a  mystic  spring  that  but  one  key, 
Which  heaven  itself  may  never  duplicate, 
And  but  the  owner  in  the  lock  may  turn, 
Will  bid  it  open?      Were  it  otherwise, 
The  lover,  yearning  in  his  heart  to  know 
The  heart  of  his  beloved,  might  sometimes 
Set  soft  the  door  ajar,  ajnd  see  her  there, 

142 


Who  with  a  calm  word  and  indifferent  smile, 
Late  met  him  coldly — see  her  bending  low 
Above  the  heaped  up  treasures  of  his  smiles 
And  tender  words  and  glances.      "Ah!"  she  says, 
"How  tender  is  this  smile!      This  one  how  bright! 
This  tremulous  with  fear,  this  touched  with  pain! 
This  jeweled  word  will  match  the  tender  smile; 
See  how  it  glistens  with  half-uttered  thought! 
And  this  one  hath  a  subtle  meaning  in  it; 
And  this  one  hath  the  ruddy  glow  of  hope; 
And  this  one  hath  a  dark  and  anxious  gleam. 
I'll  string  them  all  upon  a  single  thread, 
And  see  what  beauty  and  what  grace  they  have, 
When  linked  together."     And  so  Magia, 
Locked  in  herself,  communing  with  herself, 
Reviewing  Manley's  words  and  ways,  confessed, 
"I  love  him,  though  I  know  not  how  I  love — 
'As  sweetheart  or  as  sister  or  as  friend. 
I  do  not  understand  love,  but  I  know, 
If  loving  means  to  be  most  sad  at  heart, 
Whenever  from  the  heart,  like  a  pale  mist, 
A  cloud  of  doubt  floats  up  between  us  two, 
And  hides  us  from  each  other;  if  to  love, 
Means  to  be  happy  only  in  his  smile, 
And  seeking  for  his  good — why  then,  I  love." 
So  was  it  Manley,  locked  within  himself, 
Reviewing  Magia's  words  and  ways,  confessed, 
"I  love  her  still,  whatever  she  has  done. 
Whatever  she  has  done,  she  meant  no  wrong. 
I  understand  what  love  is,  and  I  know, 
If  loving  is  to  trust  the  one  beloved 

143 


Against  the  witness  of  the  eye  and  ear, 

To  find  the  sweetest  pleasure  in  her  smile, 

And  seeking  for  her  good — why  then,  I  love. 

She  said  she  loved  but  two  in  all  the  world, 

And  if  she  said  it,  it  was  wholly  true, 

Whatever  act  of  hers  gainsay  her  words, 

For  by  no  act  meant  she  to  be  untrue. 

I  know  there  is  no  evil  in  her  heart, 

For  there's  an  atmosphere  in  which  we  float, 

Like  stars  in  ether,  breathed  out  of  the  soul, 

A  spiritual  ether,  and  all  they 

Who  come  into  our  presence,  breathing  it, 

May  surely  tell  if  we  be  true  or  false. " 

So  Manley  went  to  Magia  with  a  smile 

As  frank  and  sweet  as  when  he  was  a  child: 

"Forgive  me;  I  was  sad  the  other  night, 

And  all  the  world  seemed  muffled  in  a  cloud. 

Forgive  me,  Magia,  be  my  sister  still, 

And  I  will  be  your  brother  as  we  were 

In  the  sweet  days  of  childhood."     Magia  sprang 

And  twined  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  cried, 

"And  we  shall  love  as  children  once  again." 

That  was  at  early  morning,  and  the  sun 
Kissed  their  fair  foreheads  as  their  young  lips  met. 
At  evening  Arthur  Grandville  came  again, 
And  Manley  calmly  rose  and  yielded  up 
His  place  at  Magia's  side,  and  quit  the  room. 
Then  Arthur  tossed  the  rich  locks  from    his  brow, 
And  turned  the  passionate  bloom  of  his  young  face 
Toward  Magia,  smiling:     "What  a  world  is  this! 

144 


A  marvelous  world  to  him  whose  veins  are  full 

Of  the  bright  streams  of  youthfulness  and  strength, 

When  life  is  wooing  him  at  every  sense, 

And  every  sense,  wide  open  like  a  flower, 

Is  drinking  life  in; — then  if  the  warm  beam 

Of  ripening  love  should  fall  upon  that  life, 

How  rich  and  sweet  it  grows!      O  Magia, 

If  love  begetteth  love,  as  I  am  told,  . 

Then  I  shall  win  your  love  by  strength  of  mine." 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  held  her  fast, 

And  Magia,  struggling   faintly,  sick  at  heart, 

Fearful  lest  any  one  should  hear  a  sound, 

Murmured  through  tremulous  white  lips,    "Set    me 

free, 

Or  I  shall  surely  hate  you!      Set  me  free!" 
At  that  he  loosed  his  clasp,  and  Magia  sprang, 
All  crimson  as  the  sunrise  with  the   shame 
And  anger  of  her  spirit:    "Pray  you,  go. 
To  morrow  we  will  find  another  place. 
I  will  not,  even  for  my  brother's  sake, 
Bear  with  you  longer.      It  would  grieve  his  heart. 
I  wrong  him  by  my  kindness;  that's  not  kind." 
"No,  Magia,  you  will  not  go  away. 
You  shall  have  nothing  more  to  bear  from  me, 
And  I  will  take  no  worse  revenge  than  this, 
To  treat  your  brother  kindlier  than  before. 
You  will  not  send  me  from  you,  Magia, 
And  strangle  those  new  yearnings  in  my  heart, 
Toward  purity  and  goodness?" 

Manley  sat 

Within  his  chamber,  wrestling  with  himself, 

145 


Like  Jacob  with  the  angel:      "Shall  I  steal, 

And  look  upon  her  through  the  open  door, 

See  if  her  face  be  tender,  kind  or  cold? 

No,  I  will  not  distrust  her  by  a  look; 

For  if  all  evidence  proclaimed  her  false, 

Against  the  witnessing  of  every  sense 

I  should  believe  her  true.     And  yet — and  yet — 

Thou  shiningest  archangel,  strong  enough 

To  stand  unveiled  the  nearest  to  the  throne 

Of  the  Eternal  One,  beware,  boast  not 

Thy  power  to  resist  and  pass  unscathed 

All  earth's  temptations.    There  is  none  that  knows. 

Till  tempted,  what  temptation  is — its  power 

To  paralyze  the  will  and  steep  the  brain 

In  deep  forgetfulness;  but  he  who  once 

Has  stood  on  ruin's  brink  with  fainting  heart 

And  reeling  brain,  with  pleading  hands  and  eyes 

Uplifted  to  the  stars,  deals  evermore, 

Gently  with  those  that  err.     I  do  believe 

That  he  who  highest  climbs  above  the  brute, 

Closest  to  angelhood,  being  finer  wrought, 

Is  tempted  more  and  more,  and  suffers  more 

Through  wrestling  with  temptation,  by  response 

To  subtleties  of  passion  and  of  pain, 

That  grosser  natures  never  feel." 

He  rose, 

And  then,  as  if  a  magnet  drew  him  on, 
He  crept  along  the  dark  and  narrow  hall 
To   where    the  lamplight     glimmered     through  the 

door. 

He  saw  the  rosy  light  on  Grandville's  face 

140 


Bent  over  Magia's,  hidden  on  his  breast. 

Their  rich  curls  flowed  together,  and  their  tones 

Were  low  and  passionate.     Then  Manley's  heart 

Gave  a  great  throb  of  doom,  and  his  brain  swam. 

Forward  into  the  shadow,  on  his  face, 

He  fell,  his  hands  locked  tight,  nntil  the  nails 

Wounded  the  fair  flesh.      Every  now  and  then, 

He  whispered  in  the  darkness,  "I  believe, 

Yes,  I  believe,  I  do  believe  in  her." 

He  rose  up  presently  and  groped  his  way 

Down  the  dark,  narrow  stairs,  and  through  the  door 

Into  the  gaslight,  when  an  arm  was  linked 

Through  his  in  friendly  way,  and  Grandville  said, 

With  kind,  familiar  grace,  as  was  his  way: 

"Come,  let  us  stroll  together  toward  the  lake. 

The  night  is  close;    perhaps  the  languid  wind 

Is  stirring  weary  wings  about  the  shore. 

Besides,  I  needs  must  have  a  word  with  you." 

"About  my  sister?" 

"Ah!    how  well  you  guess!" 
"Because  it  is  the  finest  strings  respond 
To  lightest  touches,  and  the  finest  string 
That  vibrates  in  my  heart,  is  love  of  her." 
"You  cannot  blame  me  then  for  loving  too?" 
"If  I  can  blame  the  flowers  for  loving  light!  " 
"And  if  the  light  should  deign  to  love  a  flower, 
You  would  not  blame  it?" 

"But  the  light,  you  know, 

Love's  weeds  and  flowers  and  all  that  is,  alike, 
And  makes  itself  no  darlings  in  the  world." 
"We'll  leave  the  fancy  then,  of  light  and  flowers. 

147 


Tell  me,  would  you  be  glad  or  sorrowful 

To  know  that  Magia  loved  me?"     Manley  smiled, 

Faintly  at  first  like  the  pale  streak  of  dawn 

That  brighter  grows  and  brighter  till  the  east 

Is  glorious  and  glowing  with  the  flush 

Expectant  of  the  sunrise;   so  his  smile 

Kindled  from  lip  to  cheek,  from  cheek  to  brow, 

And  in  his  heart  he  answered  ere  his  lips 

Could  shape  the  words  of  a  steadfast  reply: 

"Oh!  you  unsheathe  a  sword  against  my  breast, 

And  like  a  noble  Roman,  fearing  shame, 

The  shame  of  being  conquered  by  the  strength 

Of  mine  own  weakness,  I  will  fall  on  it, 

And  pierce  my  young  heart  through,  and  then  arise 

Out  of  the  blood  and  anguish,  and  exclaim, 

'How  well  I  died!'"     And  then  he  spoke  aloud: 

"We  seek  the  happiness  of  those  we  love. 

If  loving  you  will  make  her  sweet  soul  glad, 

I  shall  be  glad  too." 

"Ah!    3Tou  are  indeed 

A  fond  and  faithful  brother.     One  thing  more — 
Will  you  not  tell  her  this?     One  word  of  yours 
Will  have  more  weight  to  tip  the  scale  with  her 
Than  all  my  pleading,  for  she  loves  you  well. 
Nay,  were  you  not  her  brother,  I  should  feel 
The  ache  of  jealousy  because  of  you. 
Are  we  not   well   matched,    being   both   young   and 

strong, 

And  nature  having  given  to  us  both 
The  gift  of  human  beauty — a  rich  gift 
To  those  who  wear  it  graciously  and  feel 

148 


No  arrogance  because  of  it;  and  then 
I  have  an  ample  fortune  for  us  both. 
Are  we  not  well  matched?" 

"Aye,  you  are  indeed. " 

"Then  will  you  speak  to  her  in  my  behalf, 
Urging  her  gently  for  my  sake?" 

"I  will." 

"Thanks!  thanks!   You  are  my  brother  now  indeed, 
A  noble  fellow!      Now,  good  night!  " 

"Good  night!  " 

Then  Grandville,  turning  south,  went  cityward, 
While  Manley  northward  moved  along  the  shore, 
Until  he  found  a  stretch  of  sandy  beach, 
Where  gurgling  through  the  stones,  the  water  crept 
With  the  soft  sound  of  kissing.     There  he  knelt, 
His  face  turned  toward  the  gray,  complaining  sea: 
"Tell  thyself  truth,  my  heart,  they  are  well  matched, 
For  he  is  bright  and  beautiful  like  her, 
And  all  the  evil  thoughts  I  had  of  him, 
Were  but  a  prejudice  of  my  own  mind, 
Born-of  a  selfish  dread  of  losing  her. 
I  will  break  every  chain  that  binds  my  soul 
From  doing  justice.      Yes,  I  will  be  free. 
However  much  a  slave  to  other  men, 
I  will  not  be  in  bondage  to  myself. 
What  art  thou,  Liberty,  sweet  Liberty? 
Art  thou  in  broken  bars  and  rended  chains, 
In  shattered  thrones  and  trampled  codes,  blood-writ, 
In  strangled  trusts  that  erst  had  tyrannized 
Over  earth's  trade  and  commerce  and  man's  bread, 
In  laws  repealed,  emancipation  acts, 

149 


Dead  institutions  that  outlived  their  use, 
Disabled  great  political  machines, 
The  right  to  equal  shares  of  light  and  air 
And  standing  room  upon  this  ample  star, 
The  right  to  have  the  fruits  of  one's  own  toil;  — 
Art  thou  in  these  things,  O  sweet  Liberty? 
Thy  breath  is  in  them  all,  but  thou  art  not. 
Oh!  libert)'  is  the  grand  consciousness 
Of  strength  to  sever  every  Cord  that  draws 
The  soul  away  from  its  sublimest  course 
Of  perfect  truth  and  honor  to  itself — 
The  slender  silken  cord  of  gratitude, 
So  soft,  and  yet  as  strong  as  fine- wrought  steel  — 
That  stronger  chain  whose  shining  golden  links 
Are  obligations  wrought  out  of  good  turns, 
Each  heavily  conditioned  like  a  bond, 
Expressly  or  impliedly,  that  it  bring 
Each  turn  a  full  return  or  forfeiture 
Of  all  the  doer's  further  acts  of  grace — 
The  strong  steel  bands  opinions  lay  on  us, 
Strongest  by  those  we  love.     Such  chains  as  these 
Are  subtly  woven  around  us  day  by  day. 
Oh!  we  are  free  if  strong  enough  to  rise, 
And,  with  that  brightest,  bravest  sword  of  man — 
The  will  to  do  or,  not  to  do  the  thing 
Himself  deems  right  or  wrong  unto  himself, 
To  sever  every  fetter  laid  on  us 
By  law  or  love  or  custom,  unsustained 
By  justice,  truth  and  reason.     Once  again, 
I  will  be  lord  and  master  of  myself. 
I  will  arise  and  go  to  Magia. " 

150 


Thrice  he  arose  and  moved  a  little  way, 

And  thrice  he  turned  again  and  stretched  his  hands 

Toward  the  gray  waters,  while  his  pale  lips  moved, 

But  spoke  no  audible  word  and  breathed  no  sigh. 

O  heart  of  love  and  longing,  what  art  thou? 

Dost  count  for  nothing  in  the  vast  of  things? 

In  thee  what  storms  rage,  and  what  fair  stars  rise! 

Angels  take  counsel  in  thee,  and  fiends  lurk, 

And  sometimes  heaven  reigns,  and  sometimes  hell; 

Yet  no  one  passing  even  hears  thee  beat. 

For  nothing?     Aye,  for  something: — some  one  writes 

How  once  an  empire  fell.     The  world  says,  "Ah!" 

And  never  pausing,  goes  about  its  work. 

There  comes  a  poet  with  a  tuneful  tongue, 

And  sings  about  the  breaking  of  a  heart 

That's  mixed  with  heart-dust  for  a  thousand  years; 

And  lo,  the  world  is  melted  into  tears. 

Meanwhile,  beside  her  white  unrumpled  couch 
Knelt  Magia,  all  her  dark  curls  drenched  with  tears: 
"Oh!  to  be  free,  free,  free — free  to  be  true 
Unto  myself,  to  shun  whom  I  would  shun, 
To  love  whom  I  would  love,  and  free  to  say, 
'O  my  beloved,  I  love  you,'  without  shame. 
For  if  we  love,  why  not  act  lovingly, 
Speak  lovingly,  because  we  can  but  read 
And  judge  each  other  by  the  outward  signs. 
God  does  not  send  an  angel  forth  from  heaven 
To  gather  up  our  thistles  from  the  wind, 
And  change  them  into  roses  for  our  feet. 
Oh!   I  am  but  a  slave;  I  dare  not  act 

151 


My  will  for  fear  of  harm."     Sweet  Magia, 

Thou  dost  but  swell  the  universal  moan 

Of  human  slavery,  but  iterate 

The  universal  cry  for  freedom.     Lo, 

This  wondrous  social  fabric  we  have  woven, 

Majestic  in  proportions,  in  design 

So  intricate  that  all  the  world  cries  out, 

"A  master  product  of  the  human  brain!" 

Is  a  vast  web,  a  snare,  imprisoning 

The  beautiful  and  valiant  in  man's  life, 

Like  jealous  Vulcan's  fine-wrought  golden  snare. 

And  underneath  the  fair  externe,  i'  th'  dark 

Of  the  sub-structure,  lies  a  mesh  of  chains, 

Heavy  and  cold  and  rusted  with  men's  tears. 

With  every  throb  of  the  great  social  heart, 

Hark  to  the  deadly  rattle  and  the  clank, 

As  they  do  bind  and  bruise  and  suffocate. 

Hark!  — some  one  lightly  tapping:    "Brother,  come. " 
And  Manley,  entering,  set  himself  a  chair 
Beside  her  where  the  moonlight  softly  shone, 
Disputed  by  no  artificial  beam. 
Then  Magia  flung  her  curls  across  his  knees, 
And  hard  against  them  pressed  her  tear-wet   cheek. 
He  thrust  his  fingers  in  among  her  curls, 
And  felt  their  warmth  and  richness  chilling  him. 
"How  damp  your  cheek  is  with  the  summer    heat!" 
His  presence  brought  her  peace,  and  she  was  mute. 
"How  tenderly  the  moonbeams  kiss  your  hair!" 
"Why  is  it  that  the  moonlight  makes  us  sad?" 
"Because  'tis  a  suggestion  and  a  hint 

152 


Of  far-off  warmth  and  splendor  we  have  not 
We're  minded  of  the  good  that  we  have  missed, 
And  sweet  suggestions  of  life's  grand  Might  Be 
Fall  on  the  soul  like  moonlight  'mid  the  hush 
And  cold  and  shadow  of  life's  stern  Must  Be." 
"You're  sad  to-night,  my  brother." 

"Only  grave. 

I  walked  with  Grandville  by  the  lake  to-night. 
He  says  he  loves  my  sister.      Is  not  this 
Enough  to  make  a  loving  brother  grave?" 
"And  if  I  love  him,  will  it  make  you  glad?" 
"Whatever  gladdens  you  will  gladden  me. 
I  blame  me  that  I  ever  spoke  of  him 
With  words  of  slur  and  slight,  for  now  he  seems 
To  have  a  manlier  spirit  than  I  thought, 
And  he  is  bright  and  beautiful  like  you. 
I  only  nursed  a  foolish  prejudice, 
Born  of  a  selfish  dread  of  losing  you." 
"Have  I  not  told  you  that  I  love  but  two, 
My  mother  and  my  brother?" 

"So  you  have; 

But  do  you  know  what  re-creative  force 
Dwells  in  the  little  breast  of  one  brief  hour 
To  change  us  from  the  semblance  of  ourselves? 
We  sometimes  face  the  image  of  ourselves 
Of  yesterday,  that  memory  paints  for  us, 
And  start  in  wonder,  asking,    'Is  it  1?'" 
"I  have  not  changed,  my  brother." 

"You  are  sure?" 

This  moonlight  is  no  surer."     Then  they  sat 
With  the  deep  silence  ringing  in  their  ears, 

153 


And  Manley  felt  an  impulse  in  his  soul 

To  speak  himself  out  plainly,  and  to  say, 

"I  am  not  bright  and' beautiful    like  you, 

But  I  have  strength  of  soul,  and  with  my  soul 

I  love  you,  my  beloved.     Answer  me; 

What  is  to  be  the  tie  between  us  two?" 

And  Magia  felt  a  tremor  in  her  blood. 

A  wild  new  thought  was  beating  in  her  brain, 

To  dare  to  be  herself,  and  to  defy 

The  fiat  of  blind  Custom,  and  to  say, 

"Dear  brother  Manley,  you  are  my  beloved. 

If  you  are  not  my  lover,  I'll  have  none 

In  all  the  world,  no,  never  in  all  the  world. 

What  is  to  be  the  tie  between  us  two?" 

But  still  they  heard  the  silence  in  their  ears, 

And  neither  dared  to  speak  a  word. 

Meanwhile 

Amid  his  crimson  cushions  Grandville  sat, 
His  rich  brown  curls  piled  up  like  autumn  leaves 
Abbut  his  forehead's  whiteness,  and  he  smiled: 
"There  is  no  sweeter  victory  than   this — 
The  conquest  of  a  noble  human  heart ; 
And  no  defeat  more  full  of  pain  than  this — 
To  fail  to  win  its  favor.      I  will  win. 
I  have  not  been  so  good,  nor  yet  so  bad, 
Considering  I  was  never  taught  to  draw 
The  rein  upon  my  passions,  nor  deny 
My  senses  any  pleasure.      May  the  soul 
Not  bathe  itself  so  oft  in  pure  resolves, 
And  spread  itself  out  to  the  gentle  dews 
Of  holy  inspirations,  and  absorb 

154 


The  sweet  sunlight  of  truth,  till  it  is  bleached 
As  snowy  white  as  souls  just  from  the  loom 
Of  the  Eternal  Weaver,  woven  in  tune 
To  the  sweet  symphonies  of  seraphim? 
So  will  I  cleanse  my  soul,  and  by  her  side, 
Grow  like  her  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour, 
As  flowers  that  are  planted  side  by  side, 
Borrow  each  other's  tints.     For  Madeline, 
My  pretty  Madeline,  a  face  so  fair 
Wants  not  for  worshipers. " 

The  changing  leaves 

Were  falling  fast  where  fell  the  kiss  of  death 
On  the  ripe  cheek  of  summer,  on  the  day 
When  Magia  and  Manley,  hand  in  hand, 
As  was  their  wont  on  sunny  Sabbath  days, 
Roamed  in  the  park  together,  while  their  feet 
Trod  rustling  music  from  the  dying  leaves. 
"Who  is  the  stranger,  Manley,  who  has  come 
To  talk  with  you  alone  so  oft  of  late? 
And  then  so  oft  you  sit  and  think  and  smile, 
As  if  you  had  bright  dreams,  and  I  am  glad." 
He  flushed  a  little  as  he  answered  her: 
"Suppose  that  I  were  found  to  be  sole  heir 
Of  a  rich  uncle  who  had  lately  died 
Intestate?     Magia,  what  if  1  were  rich?" 
"I  should  be  happy,  Manley,  for  your  sake." 
He  did  not  hear  her  answer,  for  his  ears 
Were  deafened  by  the  beating  of  his  heart: 
"This  is  the  hour  that  I  have  dreamed  upon. 
This  is  the  hour  that  I  have  lived  so  oft, 
Rehearsing  all  its  pulses  ere  it  came. 

15f) 


This  is  the  very  moment."     Then  he  spoke: 
"There  would  be  no  more  slavish  toil  for  us. 
We  would  be  wholly  free  to  follow  out 
The  natural  inclinations  of  our  souls." 
He  paused  to  gather  breath  for  that  next  word, 
Whose  wings  should  bear  the  spirit  of  his  dreams, 
And  Magia  took  the  pause  to  make  reply: 
"I've  heard  there  is  no  thing  in  all  the  world 
That  is  so  potent  to  transform  a  man 
As  sudden  wealth,  but  I  presage  no  change 
That  will  transform  my  brother  from  himself." 
"No,  Magia,  all  my  riches  would  be  yours, 
And  you  should  have  all  pleasure  and  all  good 
Earth  could  be  bribed  to  give,  and  none  should  dare 
To  show  you  insult  or  indignity. 
We  would  be  slaves  no  more;  we  would  be  free." 
"Dear  brother,  what  is  freedom?     Tell  me,  pray, 
If  I  must  wait  upon  another's  grace 
To  satisfy  my  needs,  shall  I  be  free? 
I  scarcely  understand — I  somehow  think, 
That  love  is  best  and  sweetest  that's  most  free. 
Oh!  I  would  rather  love  for  love's  own  sake, 
Unmixed  with  any  dross  of  personal  gain, 
Save  that  large  gain  of  soul  that  always  comes 
From  loving  any  one  that's  pure  and  true. 
I  have  no  splendid  gifts  to  cultivate, 
And  I  am  strong,  and  have  no  need  of  wealth; 
But  you,  with  all  your  noble  gifts  that  want 
Leisure  for  cultivation — you  whose  strength 
Is  not  sufficient  for  the  daily  strain 
Of  unremitting  toil,  have  need  of  wealth. 

156 


How  happy  I  should  be  if  you  were  rich! 
But  that  would  be  a  tale  for  fairy  books. 
For  me  I  find  much  pleasure  in  the  world. 
Oh!  there  are  drums  and  bugles  in  the  sea, 
And  solemn  organ  thunders,  and  the  wind 
Plays  upon  flutes  and  trumpets,  and  the  trees 
Make  of  themselves  sweet  harps  and  violins. 
I  think  there  must  be  music  everywhere, 
If  there  is  but  a  consonant  chord  in  us, 
And  beauty,  if  our  souls  respond  to  beauty. " 
"Ah!  Magia,  there  are  worlds  and  worlds  that  lie 
Beyond  us  that  we  dream  not  of  until 
We  touch  upon  their  shores,  and  catch,  far  off, 
Sweet  concord  and  bright  visions  unforedreamed. 
We  have  no  thirst  or  .hunger  for  the  things 
That  we  have  never  tasted,  but  sometimes 
A  feverish  craving  for  we  know  not  what  — 
A  blind,  dumb  passion  feeling  round  the  heart, 
Unconscious  of  itself."     But  Magia  smiled: 
"I  wish  you  wealth,  my  brother,  but  for  me, 
I  am  not  ill  content."     Then  Manley's  heart 
Fell  in  his  bosom  like  a  meteor 
That,  striking  on  the  world's  cold  atmosphere, 
Ceases  to  be  a  star  and  drops — a  stone. 
He  found  a  deeper  meaning  in  her  words 
Than  Magia  gave  them,  for  his  fine-strung  soul 
Vibrated,  like  a  delicate  instrument, 
To  imperceptible  breathings  of  the  wind. 
A  shadow  fell  before  them  in  the  sun, 
And  Arthur  Grandville  in  their  pathway  stood, 
And  smiling  stretched  to  either  one  a  hand. 

157 


He  said,     "The  autumn  day  is  beautiful." 

And  Magia  echoed  faintly,  "Beautiful!" 

"Come,  let  us  sit  and  rest  a  little  while." 

But  Magia  murmured,  "No,  I  cannot  sit. 

I  have  already  been  too  long  from  home; 

But  you,  my  brother,  stay  and  rest  a  while, 

So  soft  and  pure  the  touches  of  the  air." 

Soon  as  her  step  had  ceased  to  stir  the  leaves, 

Then  Grandville  questioned  with  an  eager  smile: 

"Did  you  present  my  cause?     What  did  she  say?" 

"Nothing!" 

"What!  nothing?" 

"No,  not  anything, 

Though  I  did  plead  your  case  as  best  I  could, 
But  this,    'I  love  but  two  in  all  the  world, 
My  mother  and  my  brother.'" 

"Pshaw!  absurd! 
Girls  do  not  marry  brothers." 

"Not  of  blood, 

But  there's  no  tie  of  blood  between  us  two. 
She  found  me  when  I  was  a  feeble  child 
That  knew  not  how  to  kiss,  or  even  to  smile; 
That  knew  not  what  love  meant;  she  found  me  then, 
And  taught  me  how  to  live,  and  ever  since 
Has  called  me  brother.      It  is  but  a  name." 
"And  do  you  say  you  are  no  kin  to  her?" 
"None!" 

"None?     Not  a  half-brother?" 

"No,  not  even 
Step-brother!" 

"Well,  what  does  she  mean  by  this?  — 
158 


To  have  you  for  a  lover?" 

"I  know  not, 

But  this  I  know,  whatever  she  may  mean, 
That  I  do  love  her  better  than  my  life. 
You  think  me  not  a  fitting  mate  for  her?" 
"Well,  to  speak  frankly,  since  you  frankly  ask, 
When  one  is  bright  and  beautiful  like  her, 
One  wishes  her  to  wed  with  one  as  full 
Of  youthful  strength  and  beauty,  does  he  not? 
Why  do  you  grow  so  red  and  then  so  white? 
I  meant  to  speak  but  kindly,  and  indeed, 
Your  gentleness  of  manner,  and  the  play 
Of  kindly  thought  upon  your  face,  might  well 
Win  such  a  gracious,  tender  soul  as  hers." 
Then,  faintly  flushing,  Manley  slowly  spoke: 
"I  came  into  possession  recently 
Of  a  fair  fortune,  and  on  yester  eve 
I  made  my  will.     I  do  not  know  what  thought 
Prompted  me  to  it,  but  I  made  my  will. 
I  laid  it  in  a  little  secret  drawer 
To  which  this  is  the  key;   remember  this." 
"I'm  glad  of  your  good  fortune,"   Grandville  said. 
"Our  mutual  love  must  make  us  mutual  friends 
Whatever  be  the  outcome  of  it  all. 
At  least  we  are  too  wise  for  enmity." 
"Friends  always,  Grandville!     See,  the  sun  is  low. 
Our  ways  divide  here." 

"Well  then,  friend,  good  night!" 
"Goodnight!  I  wish  you  well."  Then  Manley  turned 
And  wandered  north  and  eastward  toward  the  lake, 
And  sat  him  down  amid  the  withered  leaves, 

159 


Beneath  a  rustling  tree,  and  turned  his    face 
Toward  the  blue  lake,  nor  stirred  for  one  long  hour. 
At  last  he  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  forth, 
And  laid  it  on  his  knee  and  slowly  wrote, 
Then  folded  it  and  waited  till  a  child, 
A  little  ragged  boy,  went  strolling  by, 
Whistling  a  happy  tune.     To  him  he  gave 
The  folded  paper,  bidding  him  to  bear 
It  at  the  hour  named,  to  whom  he  named, 
And  placed  within  the  grimy  little  hand 
So  large  and  bright  a  guerdon  that  the  boy 
Whistled  for  joy  and  tossed  his  tattered  cap, 
And  bounded  lightly  off.     Then  Manley  turned 
Himself  again  to  silence  and  the  sea, 
Silence  without,  but  tumult  in  his  brain: 
"Whenever  I  am  weary  of  myself, 
I  know  it  is  a  sign  of  inward  change, 
A  transformation  working  in  my  soul; 
That  soon  or  later  I  must  cast  aside 
The  withered  semblance  of  my  former  self, 
As  sheds  the  locust  its  dry  shell,  and  stand 
A  creature  new  and  strange  unto  myself. 
Shall  I  be  conquered,  I  who  oft  have  said, 
'I  will  be  lord  and  master  of  myself?' 
The  sin  whose  hideous  face  starts  suddenly 
Out  of  the  darkness,  makes  us  to  recoil 
With  dread  and  horror,  till  we  turn  and  rly; 
But  when  we  gaze  upon  it  first  far  off, 
And  it  approaches  slowly,  wooing  us 
With  pleasant  smiles  and  glances,  till  at  last 
Its  hands  clasp  ours,  its  breath  is  on  our  cheeks, 

160 


Its  kiss  is  on  our  lips,  and  its  strong  arms 
Enfold  us  with  a  warm,  magnetic  clasp 
That  lulls  to  drowsiness  all  sense  of  wrong, 
Then  that  which  else  were  monstrous  in  our  eyes, 
Becomes  a  pleasant  thing.      I  talk  of  sin; 
Who  says  I  sin  if  I  shall  take  my  life? 
Is  it  not  mine?     Yet  did  I  never  ask 
To  have  it  given  me,  but  it  was  thrust 
Upon  me,  like  a  feeble,  flickering  flame. 
Nor  did  I  pray  to  keep  it,  but  it  burned 
And  burned  on,  till  it  grew  too  fierce  and  bright, 
And  now  consumes  me.     Whose  the  right  but  mine 
To  bear  the  heat  of  this  Promethean  flame, 
Or  quench  it  in  the  blue  lake,  solving  so, 
Life's  vain,  insoluble  problem  easily? 
I  said  I  would  create  myself  a  world, 
A  w"orld  of  spirits;  others  have  done  so, 
And  dwelt  therein;   but  I — I  want  the  flesh, 
Rosy,  warm  flesh  that  I  can  find  and  fold. 
Go,  thou  sweet  wind,  and  kiss  her  fragrant  curls, 
Then  come  again,  and  wander  through  my  locks! 
Go  thou,  and  move  across  her  warm,  red  lips, 
In  whose  sweet  purity  I  have  believed 
Against  the  witnessing  of  every  sense, 
Then  come  again  and  bear  that  kiss  to  me. 
My  heart  is  breaking,  Magia!      'Let  it  break!1 
In  laughter  comes  the  mocking  answer  back 
From  the  blue,  leaping  waves.     The  moon  is  risen. 
The  wind  is  blowing  strongly  from  the  west, 
Piling  the  clouds  up  moonward,  and  the   lake 
Whitening  with  gathering  passion  frets  and  moans. 

161 


I  think  'twill  storm  ere  midnight.     That  is  well." 

Within  her  chamber  meanwhile  Magia  stood, 
Re-robing  in  a  simple  dress  of  white, 
And  rearranging    the  dark  curls  that  twined 
Vine-like  about  her  temples,  for  the  moon 
Between  the  parted  curtains  softly  beamed, 
And  lit  up  Magia's  mirror  where  she  stood, 
Smiling  upon  the  vision  of  herself. 
"How  fair  I  am!     Yes,  I  am  fair  indeed. 
How  full  and  white  the  forehead  flashes  out 
Of  its  dark  curls!     The  eyes  how  luminous! 
The  lips  how  red1    And  see  how  gleams  the  throat! 
How  rare  a  gift  is  beauty  rightly  used! 
Oh!  he  will  be  returning  presently, 
And  I  would  rather  he  would  think  me  fair — 
That  he  would  think  me  noble,  brave  and  true, 
Than  any  king  that  ever  wore  a  crown. 
I've  dressed  to  night  just  as  he  likes  me  best. 
I'll  drape  this  lace  across  my  bosom  so. 
That  curl-  looks  better  this  way.     See,  my  cheek 
Is  clothed  with  burning  blushes,  for  a  thought 
Has  ripened  to  a  purpose  in  my  brain, 
And  will  this  night  be  born  a  perfect  act. 
See  how  my  cheek  glows  redder  with  the  shame 
Of  such  presumptuous  thoughts,  and'j^et  I  think 
He  magnifies  his  frailty,  and  I  think — 
I'll  think  the  thought  so  softly  in  my  brain, 
The  beating  of  my  heart  shall  drown  it.      Yes, 
I  think  he  thinks — I  think  perhaps  he  thinks, 
He  is  not  strong  and  beautiful  enough. 

162 


And  yet  his  eyes  are  bluer  than  the  heavens, 

And  full  of  such  sweet  light;  and  then  his  brow 

Is  like  the  brow  of  Dante  which  I  saw 

Once  in  a  picture.      Oh!  he  seems  to  me 

To  be  the  very  noblest  type  of  man. 

Of  late  he  has  been  gayer  than  his  wont, 

Playful,  nay,  almost  merry,  jesting  oft, 

Which  is  not  like  him,  but  it  pleases  me, 

Though  gayety  is  often  but  white    foam, 

Brief  sparkles  on  the  dark  wine  of  despair. 

Now  he  will  be  returning  presently, 

And  I  will  lay  my  cheek  against  his  arm, 

As  I  have  done  in  childhood.     I  will  say, 

'  Dear  Manley,   I'm  not  worthy  of  your  love, 

And  if  you  do  not  love  me,  tell  me  so; 

But  I  shall  love  no  other  in  the  world.1 

Then  he  will  fold  me  close  and  kiss  me  Idng, 

And  all  will  then  be  well.     O  saucy  moon, 

How  suddenly  you  stooped  into  a  cloud, 

And  gathered  all  your  light  up  from  the  world. 

Ah!  what  a  gust  of  wind!      I  think  'twill  storm. 

I'll  close  the  window.     Why  does  he  not  come? 

Who  knocks?     A  letter?     Who  should  write  to  me?" 

"I  have  been  dreaming  wild  and  foolish  dreams. 
Because  my  life  was  woven  in  with  yours, 
And  all  the  threads  so  crossed  and  over-crossed, 
That  it  were  death  to  disentangle  them, 
I  thought  that  we  should  marry,  Magia. 
And  when  the  fortune  came,  you  know  I  asked — 
Do  you  remember?  —  'What  if  I  were  rich?' 
Then  all  my  blood  ran  rippling  merrily. 
I  almost  heard  it  singing  in  my  veins. 
But  then  the  shadow  that  so  many  times 

103 


Had  threatened  me  far  off,  approached,  and  fixed 

Dread  eyes  of  fire  upon  my  soul,  and  said, 

'Alas!   how  bright  and  beautiful  she  is! 

As  well  the  thistle  marry  with  the  rose.' 

And  so  farewell,  sweet  Magia,  my  beloved! 

I  saw  when  Grandville  held  you  to  his  breast, 

And  pressed  a  passionate  kiss  upon  your  lips. 

I  heard  him  speak  to  you  in  tender  tones, 

But  would  not  seem  to  doubt  by  questioning. 

Though  testified  against  by  every  sense, 

I  should  believe  you  noble,  pure  and  true. 

My  will  is  in  the  little  secret  drawer. 

You  know  the  lock;  you  have  the  sister  key. 

I  could  not  stay  with  you  and  hide  my  love, 

And  if  you  knew  it,  you  might  wrong  yourself, 

Being  so  kind  and  tender  as  you  are. 

I  will  not  stand  between  you  and  your  good. 

Be  happy,  my  beloved;    fare  you  well!" 

A  moment  like  a  statue  Magia  stood, 

Making  no  moan  or  outcry,  being  used 

To  suffer  all  things  mutely.     Then  she  turned 

And  caught  her  mantle  up  and  fled  the  house; 

And  Grandville,  who  was  lingering  by  the  door, 

Demurring  if  to  enter  or   pass  on, 

Followed  her  white  robe  like  a  flying  cloud, 

Until  she  stood  upon  the  pier,  and  stretched 

Her   white    arms    toward    the   waves    that    swooped 

along, 

Like  giant  birds  of  prey  from  some  dead  age, 
Shaking  their  white  plumes  till  the  air  was  thick 
With  glistening  down  of  spray,  and  then  she  cried, 
"My  heart  is  breaking,  Manley!" 

"Let  it  break!" 

In^thunder  came  the  hollow  answer  back 
From  the  mad,  bounding  billows,  from  far  depths. 

1G4 


Her  mantle  streamed  behind  her  in  the  wind 
That  tossed  her  dark  curls  wildly  to  and  fro. 
Her  robes  were  drenched  with  sea-foam,  still  she 

stood 
With    outstretched    arms,    while    Grandville   vainly 

strove 

To  draw  her  thence,  until  at  last  she  fell 
Fainting  upon  her  face,  and  then  he  raised 
Her  gently  up,  and  staggering  down  the  street, 
Pressed   with    his    burden    through    the   night    and 

storm. 

Now  when  the  beauteous  lily  of  the  light 
Unfolded  its  white  petals  on  the  waves, 
Revealing  its  sun-heart  of  gold,  there  came 
The  sound  of  heavy  footsteps  through  the  house, 
And  startled  Magia  from  her  swoon.     She  rose 
And  came  to  hear  the  heavy  tidings.     There, 
All  drenched  with  sea-foam,  lay  upon  a  chair, 
His  hat  and  coat,  the  linen  handkerchief 
Her  patient  hands  had  delicately  wrought 
With  fine  embroidery.      "Alas!"  said  one, 
"The  hungry  sea  would  have  its  sacrifice. 
We  could  not  save  him,  and,  poor  soul!  he  scarce 
Had  resolution  for  the  deed.     He  stood 
Long  gazing  in  the  roaring  waves,  then  turned, 
And  thrice  he  moved  away  and  thrice  returned; 
And  when  the  light  was  breaking  in  the  east, 
He  stretched  his  hands  toward  the  wild  sea  and  cried, 
'  My  heart  is  breaking,  Magia!'  and  leaped  in. 
We  did  not  see  him  struggling  in  the  waves, 

165 


So  quickly  they  devoured  him,  but  found 
Only  this  hat  and  coat  and  handkerchief, 
All  drenched  with  sea-foam,  lying  on  the  pier. 
His  sister  Magia  comes.      Stand  back  !  make  way!  " 
She  knelt,  and  on  the  garments  laid  her  face 
Buried  in  curls,  but  no  one  heard  her  words, 
But  knew  she  pleaded  with  him  who  was  gone, 
As  if  she  thought  his  spirit  lingered  still 
About  its  earthly  garments,  for  they  heard 
Her  piteous  accents  and  sometimes  his  name. 
Into  her  bosom's  snowy  drapery 
Glided  her  hand  and  drew  a  picture  forth. 
And  as  she  gazed,  its  blue  eyes  seemed  to  fill 
With  the  sweet  sorrow  of  all  yearning  love. 
"I  love  you,  Manle)-,  I  shall  love  none  else 
In  all  the  world  beside.     You  do  not  speak. 
Alas!  you  cannot,  but  I  am  your  bride 
From  this  hour  and  for  all  eternity. 
Behold  I  seal  our  marriage  covenant!" 
She  pressed  her  warm  mouth  to  the  pictured  lips, 
Then  to  the  sea-wet  garments  many  times. 
All  they  who  stood  about  her  brushed  the  tears 
That  gathered  on  their  lashes.      Magia 
Wept  not,  but  clasped  the  cold,  wet  garments  close 
Against  her  shivering  bosom,  kissing  them. 
At  last,  a  strange  light  shining  on  her  face, 
She  laid  them  by,  and  rising  from  her  knees, 
Passed  from  the  room.     They  fell  back  reverently, 
Who  stood  about  the  threshold.      Grandville  set 
The  door  wide  open  for  her  feet  to  pass; 
And  like  a  ray  of  snowy  moonlight  marked, 

160 


Where  the  rich  summer  midnight  of  her  hair 
Met  with  the  white  dawn  of  her  youthful  brow, 
A  streak  of  silver.     And  he  turned  and  wept. 


PART  IV 
FREEDOM  REGAINED 

Right  in  the  heart  of  sin  and  poverty, 
Where  Vice,  unblushing  and  unvisored,  walks 
With  his  dark  consort,   Ignorance,  up  and  down, 
Quickly  devouring  up  each  little  grain 
Of  virtue  that  dares  sprout  amid  the  filth, 
Jeering  at  laws  and  laughing  down  reforms; 
Here  where  the  serfs  of  labor  sometimes  dream 
Of  being  men  and  women  some  bright  day 
When  they  less  hardly  feel  the  cursed  grind 
Of  getting  honest  bread;  here  lifted  up 
The  People's  Institute  its  sober  walls, 
And  asked  the  toiling  populace  to  come 
And  taste  a  little  of  life's  beautiful 
In  ar.£  and  learning,  in  its  galleries 
And  spacious  libraries.     And  there,  each  day, 
Were  classes  held  in  arts  and  sciences, 
And  learning's  simplest  rudiments,  and  there 
Were  weekly  concerts  free  to  every  one, 
That  all  might  feel  the  grace  of  harmony. 
For  music,  like  an  angel,  gently  moves 
On  the  sweet  pool  of  tears  within  the  soul, 
And  troubles  it  unto  its  secret  depths 

1G7 


With  healing  inspirations.     Lectures  too 

Were  given  free  to  all,  and  once  a  week 

Were  social  gatherings  where  all  might  come 

And  sit  within  the  comfort  and  the  peace 

Of  those  bright,  spacious  rooms,  and  rest  and  chat. 

Here  oftentimes  the  toiling  populace 

Would  come  together,  and  in  peaceful  way 

Discuss  the  evils  of  the  social  state, 

The  various  remedies,  how  best  applied; 

And  freely  every  individual  spoke 

Out  the  rude  sense  of  justice  in  his  soul. 

This  was  the  monument  which  Magia 

Raised  unto  Manley's  memory  with  the  wealth 

m 

Bequeathed  to  her,  and  here  she  lived  and  worked, 
And  moved  among  the  people  like  a  light — 
A  star  that  quits  its  native  firmament 
And  sister  orbs,  to  wander  through  the  gloom 
Of  unillumined  spaces.     Everywhere 
Her  footsteps  came  one  dreamed  that  flowers  sprang. 
The  children  held  their  little  faces  up, 
Smiling  like  blossoms  turning  to  the  sun 
To  catch  the  sunbeams.     Angry  eyes  grew  mild, 
Hard  faces  softer,  wrinkled  brows  more  smooth, 
In  Magia's  presence.     So  she  lived  and  worked, 
And  never  paled  the  rose  upon  her  cheek, 
As  if,  indeed,  the  sweet  immortal  soul 
Immortalized  the  body;  but  the  streak 
Of  silver  on  her  forehead  slowly  grew, 
Until  the  soft  curls  fell  like  drifted  snow 
About  the  gentle  summer  of  her  face. 
There  came  a  timid  girl  into  the  midst 

1G8 


Of  the  assembled  people,  on  a  night. 

None  turned  his  head  or  raised  a  curious  eye, 

But  yet  she  blushed  and  shrank,  and  found  a  seat 

By  side  of  Magia,  who  gave  her  hand 

In  welcome.     "Do  I  trespass?" 

"None  does  that 

Who  comes  to  us  in  faith  and  friendliness." 
"You  wish  my  name?" 

"No,  not  except  you  choose." 
"Then  call  me  simply  Madeline,  no  more. 
What  are  the  people  saying  with  such  heat?" 
"It  is  the  social  question  which  they  moot. 
One  says,    'We  are  one  family  and  the  State 
Should  nurture  us  in  fond  maternal  love, 
Cherish  the  helpless  and  uphold  the  weak, 
And  lavish  her  abundance  upon  all 
Impartially,  like  children  she  has  borne.' 
Another  says,  'A  tyrant  is  the  State, 
And  laws  but  curse.     Behold  how  they  are  mocked 
And  twisted,  like  a  weathercock  i'  th'  wind 
Of  every  crazy  brain  that  desecrates 
The  throne  of  Justice,  sitting  in  pretense 
Of  the  interpretation  of  the  law, 
But  in  the  eyes  of  Justice  blowing  dust, 
Meanwhile  to  prostitute  the  fairest  laws 
To  personal,  base  ends.     Down  with  the  State! 
Let  each  man  follow  out  the  natural  law 
Of  his  own  being,  and,  amid  the  clash 
Of  human  interests,  and  the  daily  shocks 
Of  conquest  and  defeat,  the  flash  and  fire 
Of  will  smote  hard  on  will,  brain  struck  on  brain — 

109 


Work  out  his  highest  individual  good, 
Giving  mankind  that  noblest  gift — a  man.' 
Another  says,   'All  wealth  is  from  the  land. 
Give  every  man  his  birthright  in  the  land, 
Then  will  a  vaster  Eden  Come  to  earth 
Than  that  whose  white  dews  glimmered  in  the  light 
Of  young  creation's  dawn.'     Another  says, 
'Oh!  let  the  old  world  spin  around  the  sun, 
And  ripen  when  the  golden  season  comes 
For  worlds  to  ripen.      Let  alone,  I  say.'" 
"The  man  with  snowy  locks  and  burning  eyes, 
And  flowing  white  beard,   tell  me,  who  is  he?" 
"He  is  a  kind  of  prophet  in  our  midst. 
We  call  him  Father,  or  the  Nameless  Man, 
For  so  he  calls  himself.      Hark  to  his  words: 
'None,  none  is  free.      It  takes  how  vast    a  brain 
To  compass  the  whole  thought  of  freedom!     Lo, 
Tyrants  are  slaves,  not  knowing  they  are  so. 
The  rich  have  their  peculiar  bondage.      Those, 
Who  do  not  cringe  beneath  some  social  lash, 
Are  oft  in  lowest  serfdom  to  themselves. 
O  word  of  light  upon  the  tongue  of  truth! 
O  tear  of  rapture  in  the  eye  of  Love! 
O  marriage  ring  upon  the  strong  white  hand 
Of  most  divinest  Justice! — Liberty! 
Thou  angel  leader  of  the  centuries, 
We  see  thy  white  wings  strained  against  the  dark 
Of  the  far  future,  and  thy  starry  locks 
Clustered  about  thy  temples,  and  thy  mouth 
A  red  rose  glowing  through  the  night,  th)'  hand, 
Like  a  white  wand,  still  beckoning,  beckoning. 

170 


Thou  wilt  not  come  to  us,  but  we  must  haste 
And  follow  after  thee,  and  thoii  wilt  lead 
Us  through  the  desert  to  a  promised  land 
Where     walk    men's    deeds  like   angels   clothed    in 

truth, 

No  cruel  brand  upon  their  foreheads  white, 
Made  by  the  tiger  claw  of  selfishness, 
Their  free  wings  rumpled  by  no  fluttering 
Against  the  cords  of  custom    and  of  law.' 
The  fair,  frail  woman  sitting  at  his  side, 
His  daughter,  is  the  people's  nightingale. 
They  know  her  by  no  other  name,  and  he 
In  speaking  to  her,   always  says:        'My    Bird!' 
And  they  two  live  and  work  among  the  poor, 
She  singing  to  the  dying  till  they  think 
That  seraphim  float  'round  them;  to  the  sick 
Not  nigh  to  death,  till  soothed  to  healing  sleep; 
Unto  the  sad,  and  they  are  comforted: 
So  shares  her  rare  gift  freely  with  the  throng." 
Spoke  Madeline,   "I  know  her  face.    'Tis  she 
Whose  convict  father,  on  a  Christmas  morn, 
When  all  the  bells  were  ringing  merrily, 
Her  wedding  chimes  still  echoing  in  her  heart, 
She  being  one  month  a  bride,  he  having  served 
His  prison  sentence,  came  a  suppliant. 
She  pleaded,  but  her  husband  shut  the  door 
Upon  him  like  a  tramp,  and  after  that 
Remorse  and  secret  grief  made  her  cheek  pale. 
Whereat  he  grew  suspicious,  and  he  set 
A  watch  upon  her  footsteps  night  and  day, 
Detected  her  in  conference  with  a  man, 

171 


Accused  her.      She  protested  earnestly 

She  only  met  her  father;  but  he  laughed. 

Many  believe  she  was  a  stainless  wife, 

As  pure  as  snow  before  it  falls  from  heaven, 

And  others  say  she  was  not  wholly  true 

But  she  was  driven  and  hounded  into  sin. 

However  it  may  have  been,  I  know  the  court 

Granted  him  his  divorce,  and  took  the  child 

Out  of  her  arms,  and  gave  it  unto  him, 

And  after  that  he  never  saw  her  more. " 

Said  Magia  softly,   "Let   no  word  of  this 

Be  breathed  in  any  other  ear  than  mine. 

The  past  is  past;  why  should  it  leave  its  grave 

To  tread  our  present  paths  with  haunting  feet? 

It  takes  the  heart's    whole  strength  to  meet  each  hour 

As  it  approaches;  why  should  we  give  half 

To  combat  with  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  years? 

We  ask  of  no  one  what  his  past  has  been, 

But  what  his  present  is."     Said  Madeline, 

"How  many  here  have  secrets  in  their  eyes! 

Their  brows  are  palimpsests  whereon  are  traced 

Many  strange  records." 

•          "Aye,"  said  Magia, 
"For  every  human  life's  a  tragedy, 
If  but  a  Shakespeare  or  Euripides, 
With  glorifying  touch,  would   lift  ft    up 
In  the  sweet  light  of  sympathy  which  shows 
All  men  its  kindred  touches  unto  all." 
Then  Madeline  uplifted  her  fair  face: 
"I  have  grown  very  weary  of  myself, 
And  of  the  giddy  world  in  which  I  move. 

173 


I  pray  you  let  me  tarry  here  a  while 
And  work  with  you. " 

"Most  welcome!"   Magia  said. 
So  for  a  week  the  gentle  Madeline 
Went  up  and  down  with  Magia  everywhere, 
And  drank  her  words  and  dwelt  upon  her  ways. 
Upon  the  evening  of  the  seventh  day 
She  came  and  flung  herself  at  Magia's  feet, 
Crossing  her  gleaming  arms  on  Magia's  knees, 
And  over  those  white  arms  her  auburn  curls 
Flashed  down  like  rays  of  sunset,  and  through  them 
Her  snowy  fingers  strayed  caressingly. 
"Am  I  not  beautiful?" 

"Most  beautiful, 

And  through  the  mortal  beauty  glows  a  mind, 
And  over  all  the  glorifying  grace 
Of  spirit  beauty  like  a  splendor  falls." 
Then  Madeline  made  answer,  drooping  low, 
"And  yet  one  does  not  love  me  whom  I  love." 
"Can  you  be  sure  of  this?      Have  you  been  true? 
Be  sure  no  angel  stands  behind  our  deeds 
To  gather  up  the  tangled  ends  we  leave, 
And  weave  them  into  beautiful  designs! 
These  are  the  truest  words  of  him  /love." 
Then  Madeline  drooped  lower.    "No,"  she  said; 
"For  when  they  told  me  that  he  had  gone  wild 
Over  a  beggar  girl,  a  factory  slave, 
I  would  not  hear  him  speak,  nor  even  read 
The  letters  that  he  sent  me."     Magia  smiled: 
"I  am  the  beggar  girl,  the  factory  slave, 
But  we've  not  spoken  alone  for  these  three  years. 

173 


He  does  me  kindly  service  when  he  can, 
Teaches  the  classes  sometimes,  sometimes  speaks 
Brave  words  unto  the  people,  but  I  think 
He  has  forgotten  that  fancy  long  ago." 
Then  Madeline  drew  down  her  thick,  bright  curls 
Over  her  burning  cheeks:     "I  did  not  know — 
Forgive  me,  Magia,  I  did  not  know." 
Magia,  stooping,  raised  the  drooping  head, 
Parted  the  sunset-colored  ringlets  back, 
Kissing  the  fair  brow:     "Speak  to  him,"  she  said. 
"I  fear  me  I  shall  seem  unmaidenly. " 
"Fear  nothing  half  so  much  as  being  untrue. 
He  comes  again  to-night;  tell  him  the  truth, 
The  simple  truth,  then  let  him  go  his  way 
And  do  his  will;  but  speak  the  truth  to  him. 
Oh!  woman  is  too  narrow,  too  bound  in 
By  steels  of  custom,  too  opinion-laced. 
Even  in  her  fullest,  fairest  growth  she  shows 
Some  ugly  twists  where  she  has  grown  too  cramped, 
Some  littlenesses  that  defeat  her  right 
To  the  grave  reverence  of  noble  men, 
Unfit  her  for  great  causes.     Ask  yourself, 
Whate'er  you  do,     'Does  reason  sanction  this? 
Do  I  thus  follow  out  my  being's  law, 
Or  serve  a  blind  tradition?'     Oh!  I  long 
To  see  some  splendid  woman  once  attain 
To  all  the  fair  proportions  of  a  man, 
His  intellectual  breadth,  his  passion's  depth, 
His  height  of  courage  and  his  strength  of  will; 
Nor,  in  the  fair  unfolding  of  herself, 
Miss  aught  of  gracious  sweetness;  nor  yet  lose, 

174 


Through  wisdom,  the  white  bloom  of  innocence: 
Snow  pure,  but  not  through  ignorance  of  sin, 
Or  social  screens  set  up  to  break  the  heat 
Of  fierce  temptation's  fires  which  men  must  face, 
But  through  experience  strong,  through  knowledge 

wise, 

Spotless  as  heaven  by  conquest  of  herself." 
Then  Madeline  made  answer  tremulously: 
"No  wonder  that  the  children,  when  they  pray, 
Forget  that  it  is  God  to  whom  they  pray, 
And  lisp  the  name  of  Magia  instead; 
And  the  old  men  and  women  breathe  the  name 
To  charm  away  diseases;  and  the  vile, 
Who  never  yet  have  known  a  sense  of  shame, 
Blush  crimson  in  her  presence;  and  no  doubt, 
Lovers  will  swear  by  her."     Then  Magia  smiled: 
"Oh!  there  are  heavenly  moments  in  our  lives, 
When  sympathy  makes  angels  of  us  all, 
Clothing  us  with  a  mystic  aureole; 
And  those  whose  sorrows  have  transfigured  us 
Seeing  a  light  about  us,  kiss  our  robes, 
And  almost  worship  us,  while  other  men 
See  nothing  but  unluminous,  cold  clay." 
While  she  yet  spoke,  one  stood  within  the  room, 
And  seeing  Grandville,  Magia  smiling  passed 
Out  of  the  rocm  in  silence.      Madeline 
Rose  from  her  lowly  seat  and  moved  toward  him. 
"Arthur!"  she  said;  he  answered,  "Madeline!" 
And  they  two  looked  into  each  other's  eyes, 
The  while  the  noiseless  footsteps  of  the  light 
Were  stealing  from  the  room.     At  last  she  drew 

175 


Herself  unto  her  utmost  queenly  height, 
Assuming  a  new  dignity  and  strength, 
Like  a  new  royal  robe:     "I  tell  you  true — 
I  have  not  ceased  to  love  you  in  these  years, 
And  I  would  know  how  is  it  now  with  you?" 
He  moved  a  little  nearer,  and  knelt  down, 
And  kissed  her  snowy  fingers  twice  or  thrice. 
"You  are  as  brave  as  you  are  beautiful, 
As  true  as  you  are  brave.     Oh!  I  would  bare 
My  forehead  of  its  crown,   were  I  a  king, 
Being  so  honored  by  the  noble  love 
Of  such  a  splendid  woman.     Yet  if  I  say 
That  Magia  is  my  heart's  beloved,  my  star, 
By  which  I  shape  the  courses  of  my  life, 
The  one  true  note  by  which  my  being  tunes 
Itself  to  the  deep  harmonies  of  life? — " 
"Why  then  I  would  not  have  it  otherwise. 
No  other  is  so  worthy  to  be  loved," 
She  answered,  faintly  flushing.      On  that  night, 
The  lecture  finished,  all  the  people  pressed 
To  touch  the  hand  of  Magia  ere  they  went; 
And  when  the  last  had  gone,   the  last  but  one, 
And  they  two  stood  within  the  empty  hall, 
He  touched  her  hand,  all  reverent  as  the  rest: 
"I  have  been  keeping  silent,    Magia, 
Till   I  could  grow  up  slowly  to  your  height 
Of  moral  greatness,  struggling  day  by  day 
To  fashion  something  nobler  of  myself. 
My  cheek   is  scorched  with  burning  shame  to  think 
How  weak  and  base  you  know  me  to  have  been, 
Yet  I  have  more  to  utter  of  myself, 

170 


Ere  I  am  free  to  say  the  thing  I  must, 
More  that  I  faint  to  breathe  to  one  Christ -pure. " 
"Speak  truly,  but  speak  chastely,  for  believe 
That  truth  and  purity  may  lover-like 
Walk  hand  in  hand  together  through  all  speech, 
Aye,  through  all  thought  and  action,  never  divorced 
Save  in  the  thought  of  man  and  by  his  will." 
"Oh!  then,  there  are  dark  places  in  my  life, 
For  there's  a  social  license  given  to  men, 
Ruthless  to  trail  the  virginal  white  robes 
Of  their  affections  in  the  social  slime." 
"The  past  is  past;    why  call  it  from  its  grave 
To  haunt  the  present?"     Magia  softly  said. 
"I  say  to  you  that  I  have  sometimes  stood 
In  presence  of  unblushing,  naked  sin, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  its  beating  heart, 
And  analyzed  its  pulses,  and  I  know 
That  that  which  is  most  God-like  in  a  man 
May  make  him  most  a  fiend,  as  the  same  force 
Which  in  the  lurid  lightning  blasts  the  oak, 
And  fells  the  strong  man  sheltered  under  it, 
In  the  brave  hand  of  Science  makes  the  night 
Almost  the  radiant  sister  of  the  day. 
So  that  which  made  us  demons  yesterday, 
To-day  may  make  us  angels,  if  we  will." 
"Then,  Magia,  have  I  leave  to  speak  of  love, 
Having  concealed  aught  of  myself  from  you?" 
"Oh!   I  am  married,  Arthur,  married!     Why! 
You  would  not  seek  to  woo  another's  bride?" 
"Married!"  he  said;    "I  scarcely  understand." 
"Yes,  married,  for  I  hold  that  when  two  hearts 

177 


I 

Stand  up  together  in  the  light  of  truth, 
Before  the  rosy  altar-fires  of  love, 
Amid  their  pulses'  music  loud  and  sweet, 
Like  angel  orchestras  and  wedding  bells, 
Confessing  each  to  each,    'We  truly  love,' — 
This  is  the  marriage  moment;  this  the  act. 
What  more  can  form  or  ceremony  add? 
And  all  earth's  forms  and  rituals  cannot  make 
That  marriage  where  this  hath  not  been;   and  they, 
Who  deem  that  they  are  wedded  by  mere  rites, 
But  live  unchastely,  out  of  marriage.     Some 
May  think  that  death  dissolves  the  marriage  tie; 
Indissoluble  it  makes  it  unto  me, 
For  while  life  is,  there  may  be  death  of  love, 
But  after  death  love  has  no  power  to  die." 
"Oh!  it  was  you  who  saved  me,  Magia. " 
"No,  no,  salvation  is  within  a  man — 
A  deathless  spark  at  center  of  the  soul, 
That  any  breath  of  love  or  truth  may  fan 
Into  a  splendor  unimprisonable, 
Illumining  and  quickening  the  whole  man." 
He  bowed  his  head  in  sorrow:     "I  can  wait." 

The  years  rushed  by,  the  tireless,  swift  years, 
And  made  no  change  in  Magia,  save  to  turn 
The  white  curls  whiter,  like  soft  drifted  snow. 
And  Madeline  dwelt  with  her,  drinking  in 
Her  pure  soul's  strength  and  sweetness,  as  a  flower 
Follows  the  sun  with  thirsty  anthers.      Now 
Was  Magia's  early  sorrow  ten  years  old. 
Upon  its  birthday  morn  she  robed  herself 

178 


In  bridal  white,  and  sat  alone,  and  held 

Some  humble  poet's  volume  in  her  hand. 

She  read  aloud,  aloud,  though  to  herself, 

A  quivering,  far-off  sweetness  in  her  voice, 

As  when  a  sweet-tongued  clock  down  some  long  aisle 

Throbs  lingering  music,  like  an  angel  hid 

Amid  the  shadows,  singing  to  himself. 

Now  Arthur  Grandville,  not  remembering 

What  day  it  was,  came  with  a  purpose  firm 

To  say,  "See,  I  have  waited  patiently. 

Dear  Magia,  I  am  content  to  take 

Love's  blossom  of  the  later  spring."    He  stood 

Within  the  door.   Her  face  being  turned  from  him 

She  knew  not  of  his  presence,  and  read  on: 

"O  Yesterday,  sad  Yesterday,  return 
And  be  a  willing  bride  to  this  To-day 
With  all  its  fuller  knowledge,  and  behold 
The  beautiful  To-morrow — the  bright  birth, 
Fair  issue  of  this  noble  marriage.     Oh! 
Yet  our  mistakes  are  angels,  if  we  throne 
Them  in  our  hearts,  and  sitting  at  their  feet, 
Learn  meekly  all  the  wisdom  they  can  teach." 
She  slowly  turned  the  leaves  and  once  more  read: 

"Sleep  on  thy  white  cloud  pillows,  O  sweet  wind, 
And  whisper  of  thy  wanderings  in  thy  sleep. 
See  yonder  the  white  eyelids  of  the  dawn 
Tremble  their  dewy  lashes  and  close  down 
Over  their  starry  orbs,  as  the  day  comes, 
Veiling  the  morning  stars  with  stronger  light. 

179 


I'm  weary,  for,  through  all  the  starful  night, 
My  soul  has  reached  forth  the  strong  arm  of  thought 
And  searched  about  the  world  for  truth,  pure  truth. 
Once  did  my  fingers  close  upon  the  hem 
Of  her  white  garment,  and   I  felt  the  thrill 
Of  her  electric  being  through  me  run. 
I  laughed  for  jo)',  when,  lo!  she  fled  my  touch. 
And  once,  oh,  joy!   I  caught  her,  held  her  fast, 
And  lover-like  I  strained  her  to  my  soul. 
She  looked  up  into  my  soul's  eyes  and  smiled, 
A  calm,  compassionate,  half  disdainful  smile. 
She  said,  '  O  soul,  what  wilt  thou  do  with  me? 
Make  me  a  robe  of  perishable  words, 
And  show  me  to  thy  scoffing  race?      Knowest  not 
That  when  this  new  age,  being  fully  ripe, 
Shall  drop  into  Time's  palm  and  have  its  wine 
Pressed  out  by  his  strong  fingers,  many  things 
Men  hold  as  truth  will  be  disproved,  undone, 
Only  the  wine,  the  spirit  essence  left? 
Then  shall  I  stand  of  words  disgarmented, 
Leaning  in  naked  glory  upon  God. 
I  tell  thee  each  must  seek  me  for  himself. 
Nathless,  if  thou  wilt  have  me  bide  with  thee, 
Thou  must  mount  higher,  nearer  to  God's  throne, 
Nor  faint  nor  falter.'     So  she  spoke,  and  slipped 
Forth  like  a  shining  shadow.      After  her 
My  soul  kept  following  hard,  and  passed    at  length 
Into  a  realm  of  dim  abstraction,  where 
Are  awful  glooms  and  mighty  leaps  of  thought. 
And  there  it  grew  confused  and  missed  its  way, 
Yet  struggled  onward,  shivering  with  doubt, 

180 


Like  a  scared  angel  stumbling  'gainst  the  stars, 

Jostled  to  right  and  left  by  rushing   worlds. 

On,  on  and  up,  forever  on  and  up, 

Through  shadowy  wonders,  tangled  lights  and  darks, 

Through  labyrinths  of  nebulous  star-shapes, 

Ethereal  essence  upon  essence  heaped. 

On,  on  and  up,  forever  on  and  up, 

Truth's  silver  footfall  tinkling  just  above. 

She  passed  within  the  circle  of  God's  throne. 

My  soul,  recoiling,  veiled  its  dazzled  eyes, 

And  prayed  'Come  forth  to  me,  O  blessed  Truth!' 

With  bended  brows  that  could  not  be  upraised, 

Because  of  that  great  weight  of  glory,  prayed, 

'Daughter  of  God,  come  forth.'    And  presently 

She  came,  with  her  grand  head  inclining  low, 

To    kiss   my  soul's    dropped    eyelids,  strengthening 

them. 

She  led  it  back  into  the  world  of  sense. 
Straightway  I  fell  to  work  with  feverish  zeal 
To  make  a  robe  of  subtly  woven  words 
With  which  to  clothe  her  limbs.   When  it  was  done, 
And  from  her  shoulders  fell  in  graceful  sweeps, 
I  held  her  from  me,  gazing  long.     She  smiled, 
A  calm,  compassionate,  half-disdainful  smile, 
And  cried,  <Lo,  thou  hast  won  me  for  thyself. 
But  though  thou  sing  a  song  so  strong  and  sweet 
That  it  were  worthy  to  be  sung  in  heaven, 
And  thou  shouldst  sit  beneath  the  evening  star 
And  hear  some  seraph  warbling  that  same  song, 
As  Theban  Pindar  heard  the  great  god  Pan 
Singing  a.  mortal  ode  of  his,  and  smiled 

181 


In  voiceless  rapture;  and  though  other  men 
Should  take  your  song  of  truth  upon  their  lips, 
And  nimbly  jingle  it  from  tongue  to  tongue, 
Yet  would  it  not  be  theirs  without  the  strife, 
The  strong,  persistent  struggle  of  the  years 
That  wins  the  truth,   a  salt  into  the  blood, 
A  tissue  in  the  being's  tissues.     Yea, 
I  say  that  none  shall  have  me  for  his  own, 
Except  he  follow  me  as  thou  hast  done.' 
Now  I  behold  the  pensive,  dewy  earth 
With  a  long  sweep  of  flowing  sunlight  dries 
Her  dewy  lashes,  rises  up  and  goes 
A-singing  to  her  work.     I  rise  and  go, 
Believing  I  have  only  slept  and  dreamed, 
Yet  having  gained  some  wisdom  out  of  dreams." 
Once   more  she   turned   the  leaves    and  once   more 
read: 

"All  social  schemes,  like  embryo  infants,  lie 
In  the  vast  evolution  of  the  world, 
Beneath  its  mighty  heart,  whose  thunder-throbs 
Are  the  world-shaking  centuries.     Let  them  grow, 
Unfolding  slowly,  ripening  to  their  hour. 
To  force  them  to  their  birth  is  certain  death. 
But  nourish  the  great  mother  with  the  wine 
Pressed  from  the  fruit  of  ripe  experience; 
Make  her  blood  rich  with  wisdom;  let  the  sun 
Of  science  shine  upon  her;  let  her  breathe 
The  calm,  pure  air  of  reason,  till  at  last 
Unimportuned  she  will  present  the  world 
With  its  sublimest  social  dream  fulfilled." 

182 


He  heard  the  quivering  sweetness  of  her  voice, 

And  felt  himself  abashed,  as  if  he  stood 

In  presence  of  an  angel  strayed  from  heaven, 

Whom  one  might  worship,  but  not  marry.     Then 

She  turned  a  little  way,  and  Grandville  saw 

A  picture  'twixt  the  pages  of  her  book. 

He  knew  the  white  breadth  of  the  thought-stretched 

brow, 

The  meek  fire  of  the  beautiful,   mild  eyes, 
The  mouth's  grave  sweetness,  and  he  bowed  his  head 
In  reverential  sorrow,  would  have  passed 
Out  swiftly,  noiselessly,  but  Magia  felt 
Rather  than  saw  him  there,  and  turned  and  smiled, 
And  beckoned  to  him.     Arthur  came  and  sat 
Upon  a  footstool  low  at  Magia's  feet. 
Then  Magia  softly  said,  "If  I  should  die — " 
"What  then  were  life  to  me?" 

"If  I  should  die — " 
"Oh!    do  not  speak  of  death." 

"If  I  should  die, 

I  leave  this  work  to  you  and  Madeline. 
Here  in  this  splendid  city  by  the  lake, 
I  dream  that  man  has  a  majestic  hope, 
Because  all  elements  of  life  and  thought 
Enrich  her  blood  and  stimulate  her  brain. 
Here  is  the  world  epitomized,  for  here 
Are  pulses  out  of  every  nation's  heart, 
And  men  may  study  mankind  at  their  hearths. 
This  is  to  be  a  favorite  battle-ground 
For  truth  and  error.      Here,   as  time  moves  on, 
Great  causes  will  be  marshaled.     Times  have    been 

183 


Already  when  the  stirring  trumpet  blast 

Of  an  approaching  conflict  shook  the  world 

Out  of  its  dream  of  safety.     Oh!   then  teach 

All  capable  of  bearing  the  bright  arms 

Of  reason,  fearless,  independent  thought. 

If  you  would  lead  men  surely  angelward, 

Teach  them  to  think, — not  what  to  think,  but  how. 

I  fear  me  that  the  tendency  of  man 

Is  backward  and  not  forward,  down,  not  up. 

But  for  a  white-winged  instinct  in  his  soul, 

Impelling  him  to  strive  against  the  things 

Which  drag  him  bruteward,  he  would  sink  again 

Into  the  ape  and  tiger.     Oh,  how  long 

It  takes  to  move  the  whole,  great  world  an  inch, 

The  whole,  great  world  together!     As  for  me, 

I  am  a-weary  of  the  heat  and  din 

Of  the  perpetual  warfare.      If  I  lie 

Down  like  a  wounded  soldier  in  his  tent, 

And  slumber,  will  you  carry  on  the  siege 

'Gainst  sin  and  ignorance?"      He  simply  said, 

"The  cause  is  truth,  the  lifting  up  of  men, 

The  lighting  of  the  world,  your  cause  and  mine." 

She  rose  up  then,  complaining  weariness, 

But  smiling  still,  and  with  the  lightest  touch 

Of  lips  upon  his  forehead,  left  him  there, 

Still  as  a  breathing  statue,  one  long  hour. 

Soon  there  arose  a  tumult  through  the  house, 
The  sound  of  hurrying  feet  and  closing  doors. 
As  swift  as  hungry  fire  through  withered  leaves, 
From  lip  to  lip  the  mournful  message  ran, 

184 


That  Magia  was  dying.      How  they  thronged 
About  the  doors  and  through  the  rooms  and  halls, 
The  ragged  children  sobbing,  and  the  men 
And  women,  with  their  homely  garments  thick 
With  honest  grime  and  odors  of  their  toil, 
Sobbing  like  children;   those  who,  stained  by  crime, 
Touching  that  pure  and  perfect  life,  had  grown 
More  nearly  pure  and  perfect;  hearts  made  hard 
And  sour  through  man's  injustice,  that  her  smile 
Mellowed  and  sweetened,  knowing  she  had  bent 
Her  young  head  to  the  biting,  wintry  wind 
Of  inhumanity,  still  uncongealed 
Keeping  the  warm,  sweet  fountains  of  her  heart. 
The  street  was  darkened  by  a  sea  of  heads 
That  ever  swayed  and  murmured,  now  and  then 
Sending  a  loud,  hoarse  moan  up,  as  the  word 
Was  passed  along  that  Magia  would  die. 
The  wind  blew  and  the  rain  fell  on  their  heads, 
And  still  they  stood  and  shivered  hour  by  hour. 
A  stranger  forced  his  passage  through  the  throng, 
A  man  with  sunburned  cheeks  and  mild  blue  eyes. 
At  edge  of  the  brown  hair  there  gleamed  a  streak 
Of  delicate  white  skin,  where  the  broad-rimmed  hat 
Had  foiled  the  passionate  kisses  of  the  sun. 
He  was  not  tall  enough  nor  straight  enough 
For  perfect  physical  beauty,  but  he  wore 
An  air  of  gracious  dignity  and  strength 
About  him,  as  of  one  who,  once  for  all, 
Has  laid  a  master  hand  upon  himself. 
Nor  was  there  wanting  manly  thews  of  limb, 
Nor  the  warm  flush  of  health  upon  the  cheek. 

185 


Breathless  he  pushed  his  way  amid  the  crowd, 
With  gentle  rudeness  thrust  the  children  by, 
And  all  who  would  restrain  him,  till  he  came 
Where  Grandville,  standing  sentinel  at  the  stairs, 
Kept    back    the    anxious    throng.       "You    must  not 

pass." 

"I  must,  for  I  must  see  her.     Will  she  die?" 
"She  will." 

"She  shall  not." 

"Aye,  I  think  she  will, 

As  some  rare  rose,  in  full  and  perfect  bloom, 
That  stands  the  season's  storms,  untimely  frosts 
And  all  prevailing  blights,  and  shows  no  flaw, 
Then  suddenly  upon  a  still,  fair  day, 
Sheds  all  at  once  its  petals,  and  is  gone. 
But  who  are  you?" 

"One  who  may  bring  her   help." 
"A  new  physician?" 

"Aye,  and  one  that  brings 
An  unknown  remedy.     Pray  let  me  pass." 
He  pressed  on  unresisted,  till  he  stood 
In  Magia's  chamber,  where  she  lay  and  smiled, 
Her  eyelids  shut,  like  delicate  curtains  drawn 
On  luminous  windows.      And  as  one  who  turns 
His  back  upon  the  sun  that  he  may  look 
Down  some  long,  shadowy  vista,   Magia  seemed 
To  gaze  far  backward,  murmuring  as  she  gazed, 
That  quivering,  far-off  sweetness  in  her  voice: 
"Lean  on  me,  little  brother.      I  am  strong. 
I'll  hold  my  cloak  around  you.     How  the  sleet 
Pricks  in  the  face  like  needles!     Thank  you,  sir; 

180 


He  is  my  brother,  and  we  must  have  work 

Together.      Ah!   the  sun  is  shining  bright. 

You  feed  the  swans.      There's  only  a  few  crumbs. 

You  like  to  feed  them,  and  I  like  to  watch 

Them  stretch  their  red  beaks.      Brother,  when  we're 

rich 
We'll  buy  some  water  lilies  just  like  those." 

All  day  the  rain  had  fallen  heavily, 

And  the  low  thunder  moaned  about  the  sky, 

And  the  wind  grieved  from  street  to  street;  but  now 

A  sea  of  crimson  glory  filled  the  west, 

Arched  by  a  rainbow  bright  as  angel  dreams, 

Above    which    rolled     the    storm-clouds,     thridded 

through 

With  lightning  threads  that  ran  and  counter-ran, 
As  if  an  angel,  holding  in  his  hand, 
A  needle  threaded  with  a  silver  thread, 
Were  mending  the  rent  mantle  of  the  storm. 
Then  Magia  turned  her  eyelids  toward  the  west, 
And  with  uplifted  finger  cried,  "Behold! 
An  angel  stands  on  yonder  sunset  cloud, 
A  rainbow  on  his  forehead.     It  is  he!" 
The  stranger  knelt.     None  understood  his  words, 
But  knew  he  pleaded  with  her,  for  they  heard 
His  piteous  accents,  and  sometimes  her  name. 
She,  thinking  that  the  angel  in  the  cloud 
Was  speaking  to  her,  stretched  her  hands  and  cried, 
"He  beckons  to  me;  he  is  speaking.      Lo, 
His  tones  are  sweeter  than  they  were  on  earth, 
As  angels'  should  be.      Brother,  I  will  come!" 

187 


She  stretched, both  hands  toward  the  bright  sunset- 
cloud. 

"O  Magia,"  the  stranger  cried  aloud, 
Clasping  her  outstretched  hands  in  wild  despair, 
"Help!   help!     Your  brother  needs  you,  Magia! 
I  die  except  you  save  me,  Magia! 
Will  you  not  stay  and  help  me,  Magia?" 
Slowly  she  turned  her  sweet,  bewildered  face, 
And  gazed  into  his  beautiful,  mild  eyes. 
"O  Magia,  I  have  returned  alive, 
I  am  not  dead,  although  I  meant  to  die, 
Up  to  the  very  moment.     Then  there  came 
A  wiser  thought,  touched  with  a  gleam  of  hope — 
To  go  away,  and  let  you  think  me  dead 
For  ten  long  years,  so  leave  you  free  to  choose. 
And  so  I  left  my  garments  on  the  pier, 
To  carry  the  false  message  unto  you, 
And  in  the  dawning's  darkness  crept  away, 
And  journeyed  to  a  far-off  land,  and  there 
I  lived  and  worked  beneath  a  tropic  sun, 
And  gathered  health  of  body  and  peace  of  mind. 
These  ten  years  being  past,  I  set  my  face 
Toward  home  and  Magia,  all  my  senses  whet 
Unto  a  twofold  keenness.      I  could  hear 
The  timid  pulses  in  the  veins  of  flowers, 
The  dazed  stars  tripping  on  the  robes  of  dawn, 
The  soft  wing-music  of  the  passing  hours, 
Strange  melody  from  spheres  beyond  our  own, 
The  low-toned  planets,  and  the  flute-like  wail 
Of  patient  suns  that  feed  their  worlds  with  light 
Through  linked  forevers.      I  could  see  the  eve 

188 


Distilling  its  bright  dews  far  up  in  heaven. 
I  saw  the  sun  and  ocean  making  clouds, 
The  opening  of  new  buds,  the  birth  of  worlds; 
And  yet,   through  all  my  journey's  weary  length, 
The  glory  of  her  smile  was  everywhere, 
Clothing  the  whole  world  with  an  aureole. 
The  music  of  her  voice  was  everywhere, 
Girdling  the  world  with  melody.     I  seemed 
To  hear  her  calling  to  me  night  and  day, 
'Hasten,  my  brother!     Oh!   make  haste!'    I  tried 
To  warn  my  heart  against  too  wild  a  hope, 
Lest  it  should  bring  too  wild  despair.     I    said, 
'Alas!   she  may  be  dead,  perchance  be  wed!' 
But  still  my  soul  was  jubilant,  and  came 
Swift  as  a  bridegroom  certain  of  his  bride. 
You  cannot  die  and  leave  me  in  the  world. 
You  must  not,   will  not,  Magia!" 

"No,"  she  said. 

"Then  we  are  married,  married,  Magia. 
Behold  we  seal  our  marriage  covenant." 
He  laid  his  warm,  red  lips  against  her  own, 
And  in  the  kiss-long  rapture  of  that  breath 
Was  all  of  life  to  him,  of  life  to  her. 


CONCLUSION 

The  autumn  day  was  almost  done.     The  lake 
Was  at  its  stillest,  and  the  sun  was  low. 
Two  little  boats  rocked  gently  on  the  waves 
Near  to  each  other.      Madeline  laid  by 

189 


Her  dripping  oar,  and  Lifted  up  her  face, — 
Ripe  cheeks  that  tempt  the  rich,  red  lips  of  youth, 
White  forehead  with  a  nimbus  of  bright  hair, — 
And  speaking  to  her  fellow  oarsman,   said, 
"See  how  the  sunlight  gleams  on  Magia's  curls! 
Oh,  that  I  were  like  her — so  strong  and  sweet!" 
Then  Arthur  too  laid  by  his  oar  and  said: 
"Sometimes  a  solstice  in  the  soul's  year  comes, 
When    in    its   calm,  high    spheres    its    great    lights 

pause, 

While  lower  elements  tempestuous  rage, 
And  then  move  on  serenely,  calm,  but  changed, 
For  a  new  season  has  been  ushered  in. 
So  was  it  my  soul's  solstice  on  the  day 
When  young  Marcellus  from  the  grave  returned. 
Then  a  new  season  reigned.      Then  I  beheld 
What  heights  of  spiritual  life  had  risen 
Between  my  soul  and  Magia's;  how  she  moved 
Too  far  above  me,  like  the^moon  in  heaven, 
In  calm,  pure  splendor,  while  I,  like  the  sea, 
Yearned  far  below  in  passionate  unrest. 
But  I  will  love  her  still,  and  love  her  well, 
As  loves  the  sea,  the  moon,  far  off,  far  off — 
As  man  might  love  an  angel.      But  for  you, 
You  who  are  like  her  in  all  gracious  ways, 
In  gentle  truth  and  sweet  sincerity, 
You  are  my  earthly  Magi  a  whom  I  dare 
To  love  and  marry.      Answer  if  I  may." 
"I  am  content,"  she  answered,  "to  be  loved 
Because  I  am  like  Magia. "     Then  they  heard 
A  sudden  chord  of  music  from  the  lips 

190 


Of  Magia  and  Manley,  a  brief  pulse 

Of  laughter.      He  had  raised  a  snowy  curl 

That  gleamed  on  Magia's  shoulder,  to  his  lips. 

"It  is  more  beautiful  than  when  it  wore 

Its  richest  midnight  luster." 

"Ah!"  she  said, 

"A  little  life's  how  slight  a  thing!    It  falls, 
And  like  a  snowflake  slips  into  the  sea, 
And  melts  from  sight;    and  yet  what  costly  things — 
JTears,  anguish,  passions,    dreams,  wrongs,    battles, 

blood, — 

It  takes  to  make  a  strong,  true  life  that  feels 
All  human  nature  conquered  in  the  blood! 
Men  ar'e  so  bound,  and  yet  so  wide  apart! 
Together  by  what  mighty  likeness  held! 
Yet,  by  what  differences    immeasurable, 
What  gulfs  impassable,  oft  separate! 
So  one  may  move  a  stranger  in  the  throng, 
Feeling  he  has  no  kindred  in   the  world, 
Yet,  yearning,  knows  that  all  men  are  his  kin. 
So  when  I  thought  you  were  not  in  the  world, 
I  seemed  a  stranger,    brother."      How  he  smiled! 
"Who  is  it  calls  me  brother?     What!  — my  wife? 
These  ivy  vines  of  habit,   how  they  cling 
About  our  thoughts  and  actions,  creeping  in 
Amid  the  careless  words  that  shape  our  speech, 
Binding  us  to  the  ruins  of  the  past 
That  else  might  crumble  from  us."     Then  they  two 
Struck  a  low  chord  of  laughter,  thrilled  and  sweet, 
Which  throbbed  an  instant  on  the  wind,  then  fell 
Into  the  blue  waves,  fading  out  of  sound. 

191 


Now,  like  a  golden  period  from  the  pen 

Of  Time,  the  ancient  scrivener,  the  great  sun 

Fell  on  the  shining  surface  of  the  lake, 

And  left  the  western  sky  all  glorious 

With  tints  innumerable,  as  if  it  were 

The  gathering  place  of  souls  of  earth's  dead  flowers. 

Spoke  Manley:     "Let  our  chiefest  mission  be, 

To  make  ourselves  the  noblest  that  we  may; 

And  second,  to  ennoble  other  men; 

Because  the  great  Christ-passion  to  redeem 

Burns  in  our  hearts,  and  life  is  but  half  lived, 

Unless  we  feel  that  men  have  touched  our  robes, 

And  virtue  has  gone  out  from  us." 

"And  yet," 

Said  Magia,  gazing  thoughtfully,  "and  yet, 
I  do  not  like  this  clang  of  forging  men, 
Like  white  hot  iron  at  our  social  forge. 
I  think  salvation  is  within  a  man, 
A  deathless  spark  at  center  of  his  soul, 
That  outward  burns;  and  they  who  beat  the  drums 
Of  progress,  and  ring  out  the  wild  alarms 
Of  death  and  danger,  oft  confuse  the  world. 
And  yet,  we  may  not  live  unto  ourselves. 
How  shall  we  serve  th^  world  best?     Let  us  think. " 


192 


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